


sunshine sometimes

by lovereact



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Canon, V After Ending spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovereact/pseuds/lovereact
Summary: “I have one condition though,” Zen says, holding up a hand and extending his pinkie. “Promise you'll call me first if you’re ever scared or unsure. I’ll help you feel safe, okay?”Saeran stares for a moment, then tentatively links their little fingers.“I promise.”
Relationships: Choi Saeran/Zen | Ryu Hyun, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	1. in order, introductions

**Author's Note:**

> I got back into Mystic Messenger to the extreme over quarantine and produced ~30k words of utter self indulgence. Wrote this for me, myself, I, and any other poor soul invested in this rarepair. 
> 
> This takes place following V’s “forgive” after ending. Saeran’s personality post Mint Eye varies throughout the routes, so I took inspiration from how he acts in his own route + the glimpse we get of him in V’s ending + my own headcanons (hint: he's a bit more well adjusted). This fic is essentially plotless! Chapters are chronological though not necessarily tethered to each other. The end result: a story exploring a budding relationship. 
> 
> The whole thing is already written so I'm hoping to update semi-regularly as I edit. (rating may rise in later chapters)

The person Jihyun brings to the third charity party ever hosted by the RFA is nowhere near what Zen expected from the infamous brother of Saeyoung Choi. A shock of white hair, startlingly reminiscent of his own, stuns Zen at first glance. He can't recall ever meeting another young person with the same eye-catching shade. 

Zen's gaze doesn't stutter on the swathe of scars patterning the left side of the man’s face. Instead, it traces the lines of his pale pink suit in disbelief. The fabric is one blush away from blinding, and Zen only gets a fleeting moment to process this before Saeyoung is pulling the man into a fierce embrace. 

It's easy to piece things together after that. 

For the rest of the bizarre afternoon, Saeyoung acts as if in a dream. He clings to his brother’s side, every so often pausing to stare like the second he looks away Saeran will vanish into nothingness. 

No one can fault him for this behavior—though it almost becomes an issue when he takes to glaring at any guest who strays within ten feet of Saeran’s chair. 

Jumin and Jihyun are quick to exploit their combined renown, drawing attention away from the pair of once-estranged twins with promises of photo ops and official press statements. Zen supposes for better or for worse, the Choi brothers have a knack for staying under the radar. 

Thanks to a frantic amount of time spent networking, Zen doesn’t see much of Saeran—apart from a single instance. 

The great mob of people typically clamoring for Zen's attention are too absorbed in their meals to notice him idling next to the buffet, holding a plate of desserts shoved into his hands for safekeeping by Yoosung. 

He soaks in this moment of respite, watching with fondness as Jihyun and the coordinator indulge in one another’s company. They lean close in hushed conversation, the looks on their faces making up for the two years they spent apart. 

Recalling another solitary pair, Zen glances towards the table in the back corner and nearly drops his plate in surprise. 

Across the room, Saeran’s bright gaze bores into him, freezing like cold water dumped over his head, soaking through his jacket to the skin. Zen doesn’t dare avert his eyes, even when Saeran turns away to tug at his brother’s sleeve. 

Saeran cups a hand close to Saeyoung’s ear and whispers something that morphs his twin’s questioning expression into astonishment. Then, it’s Saeyoung’s turn to stare, his brow furrowing as he beckons Zen over. 

Zen stays to the far end of the table, both to ensure Saeran’s comfort and to stave off unwarranted suspicion. Yet displeasure is still written all over Saeyoung’s face, as if it were Zen’s idea to come and interrupt sibling bonding time. 

“Did you need me for something?” Zen asks, trying to decide which twin to address. He settles on Saeran, flashing a reassuring smile saved for harried directors and nervous co-stars. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Saeran, right?” 

Saeyoung leans sideways, partially obscuring Saeran from view. His shoulders bunch with apprehension as he stares Zen down with a glower that is so unlike his usual self it verges on comical. 

Saeran, for his part, is remarkably unfazed. He taps his brother on the shoulder, meeting the tense set of his jaw with a small smile. 

Saeyoung is quick to back off but continues glancing between the both of them like an anxious parent. “Hyun, Saeran. Saeran, Hyun Ryu—” 

“You can just call me Zen,” Zen interrupts. “It’s my stage name. Nobody really calls me Hyun except for V— er, Jihyun.” 

That particular change is going to take some getting used to. 

Saeran dips his head in acknowledgment but doesn’t offer any other greeting. Instead, he turns to his brother once more and gives him a measured look. 

Saeyoung scoffs, gesturing with one hand—leaving Zen to wonder what parts of the conversation he’s missed thanks to their twin telepathy.

“He wants to know if your hair color is natural,” Saeyoung says finally, and both brothers’ eyes skim in tandem over the ponytail draped across Zen’s shoulder. 

Their synchrony is almost unsettling. 

Zen lifts the palm of his free hand to cup the underside of his ponytail and extends his arm with a flourish. White strands slip between his fingers, flowing like silk threads. He catches Saeyoung rolling his eyes, but Saeran watches with an unnerving amount of interest. 

“I don’t bleach it or anything,” —Zen rubs a lock between his thumb and forefinger— “It’s been like this since I was born.” 

“I told him as much,” Saeyoung mutters. 

“It’s a lovely color if I do say so myself,” Zen gives another disarming grin with intention to flatter and is rewarded with a light dusting of pink on the younger Choi’s cheeks. Then and there, Zen concludes Saeran is much more agreeable than his twin. “Is yours natural as well, Saeran?” 

Saeran’s face loses its charming flush, turning as pale as his hair. He looks down at his hands. 

Of course, there’s no way it could be natural. Saeyoung has had red hair for as long as Zen’s known him, and he doubts Saeran had much time to mess with bleach and toner while recovering from a cult. That leaves one other explanation, the implications of which are stomach turning. Zen could smack himself, but Saeyoung looks like he’s seconds away from quite literally beating him to the punch. 

“Thanks for your time, Zen,” Saeyoung says, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the cream tablecloth. 

Zen knows a dismissal when he hears one. With the sickly feeling of guilt clawing at his insides, he gives a final polite bow and turns to go. 

“Wait!” 

Zen stops mid-stride, responding to the command as if compelled. 

Saeran stares, wide-eyed under Zen’s full attention like he wasn’t the one who just demanded it. Held in place by equal parts confusion and dread, Zen prays he didn’t offend Saeran enough to warrant an actual reprimand. 

Saeran’s gaze inches down to where Zen is dutifully holding Yoosung’s untouched dessert platter—a curated sampling of rainbow macaroons, shortbread cookies, and fluffy chocolate cake. While not to Zen's tastes, it's some of the best sweets donation money can buy, surely enticing to any dessert fan. 

Enticing...

He catalogues the dishes spread out on the table before him. Saeyoung’s plates are almost wiped clean, while Saeran’s are full of sampled foods left to go cold. The only thing that looks picked apart is a bowl of fruit salad missing all its strawberries. 

Zen is beginning to understand. 

He bites his lip to hold back a grin and sets his plate down in front of Saeran, who looks between Zen and the sweets like he can't believe he’s allowed to take one. 

“You can have them,” Zen says, “I’ve got to maintain my figure.” 

Saeran is still gazing at him—and from where in his family tree could he have gotten those heart stopping blue eyes? At least they’re less icy now, melting with the honey-sweet smile that lights up Saeran’s features. 

_Woah._

“Thank you,” Saeran murmurs, pulling the plate close.

Zen swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat. “Don’t mention it.” 

Saeyoung observes this exchange like he's tuning into a solemn news program. He gives Zen an incredulous thumbs up as Saeran deliberates over which dessert to try first. 

Zen responds with a small wave and chooses to return to the buffet before he overstays his welcome. The next time he checks on the Chois from afar, he’s pleased to see the number of dessert platters at their table has doubled. 

The image of Saeran blissfully digging into a bowl of ice cream is worth the whining Zen has to put up with when Yoosung returns to find his desserts mysteriously misplaced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title lifted from the song "Sunshine Sometimes" by Bedouine


	2. a favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up a week ago but finals have me by the throat. Excited we're getting the Ray After Ending soon though!! 
> 
> Note: MC is named after the protagonist of the MM webtoon.

Over the next couple months, Saeran becomes a regular fixture of the messenger. 

He tends to act as a silent observer to most of their conversations, keeping things formal and brief. It’s reminiscent of Jumin’s texting style without the underlying sense of superiority that gets on Zen’s nerves. 

Yoosung jokes that catching Saeran in the chat is like stumbling across a rare loot drop. Once Zen nags enough to get that translated from gamer terminology he can’t help but agree. In fact, he finds his curiosity piqued every time Saeran’s text bubbles pop up in his notifications.

Saeran doesn’t appear to dislike the messenger, else he wouldn’t be present at all. If addressed he’ll respond every time without fail.

It’s...sort of endearing. Almost like he’s learning how to interact with them through careful observation. 

Saeyoung confirms this, throwing out that Saeran gathered data on each RFA member long before actually meeting any of them. Cataloguing their schedules, base characteristics and hobbies was typical Mint Eye reconnaissance. And maybe Zen should feel a bit more fazed by that than he actually does. It doesn’t hit the same when you’re a semi-celebrity whose public persona is available online for anyone to access. 

Besides, Saeran seems embarrassed by his old habits—the frowny-face sticker at the end of his concise apology is enough to convince them all. 

If anything, Zen wishes there was an accessible profile on Saeran he could flip through. Even a list of likes and dislikes would be good. Or a “care and handling of” pamphlet. 

He’s managed to keep himself an enigma, and Zen soon realizes the only way he’ll learn anything about Saeran is by interacting with him one on one. To his surprise, it isn’t long before the opportunity presents itself. 

**____________**

Zen’s hair is still damp from the shower when he notices his phone screen lit up with a grand total of five missed calls from Saeyoung Choi. A jolt of concern hits him, and he fumbles with the lock screen, thumb sliding over the return call icon. 

The line picks up before the end of the first ring. 

“Are you psychic?” Saeyoung’s usual chipper tone blares through the speaker. “I was just about to call you!” 

“You called me like, ten times already,” Zen mutters, pulling the phone away from his ear. “Is everything alright? You sound fine…” 

Saeyoung snickers. “Oh my, if you like the sound of my voice that much—” 

“I’m hanging up,” Zen warns, even as he hits the speaker button so he can grab a beer from the fridge. 

He slides onto the couch and nestles the can between his knees, opening it with one hand while the other fishes under the cushions for the TV remote. The satisfying click and fizz of the broken seal instantly calms his nerves. 

“—I’ll make sure to call more often.” Saeyoung finishes, the sound of his voice over the speaker echoing throughout the room. “Wait, are you drinking?” 

“Yeah, you want some?” 

“Very funny,” Saeyoung says without any humor. “Leave the jokes to me.”

Zen takes a long swig. “Seriously though, what’s up? Did I miss something in the chat?” 

“On a scale from one to ten, how drunk would you say you are?” 

“I’ve had one sip,” Zen says dryly, bringing the can to his lips. “About to make it two.” 

“Can you pretty-please, maybe, possibly pick up Saeran from therapy?” Saeyoung asks in a rush, and Zen chokes on his drink. “Zen? Don’t tell me you’re dying right now cuz that’d be horrendous timing.” 

“Wha- but why me?” Zen manages, hitting his chest with his fist to quell another coughing fit.

“Jihyun and Hana are still on their honey-moon, Yoosung doesn’t get out of class until eight, I know Jaehee is busy, and I didn’t want to ask Jumin because he’d just send over a driver and Saeran’s never been in a limo before and he’d probably get really freaked out and try to take the subway again but the last time he did that—” 

“Okay!” Zen clears his throat a final time. “Okay. What I meant is, why can’t you pick him up yourself? Don’t you own a car?” 

“I own several cars and each one is very special to me,” Saeyoung says primly. “And I would if I could, but I've got a Jumin Han deadline coming up in T-minus, uh, two hours?”

Listening closely, Zen can hear the faint sound of frantic typing. He’s not sure what makes a Jumin Han deadline so significant, but he can imagine the consequences of failing to meet one.

“...How much work do you have left?”

“I’ve finished seventeen fourtieths of my assignment.”

Zen attempts the math in his head but loses track halfway through long division. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you’re nowhere near done because you waited until the last minute,” he says, standing to go pour his beer out into the sink. It would’ve been flat by the time he got back anyway. “You don’t even have to confirm that for me, by the way.” 

Saeyoung groans. 

“Yeah, whatever. I’ve got garbage time management skills. Should’ve put that on the resume I didn’t submit. Can you pick him up or am I going to have to set off the sprinklers in Yoosung’s classroom again?” 

_Again?_ He almost asks before realizing he really, really doesn’t want to know. 

“Sure, I can rescue Saeran from the scary subway system and spare you a lecture from corporate,” Zen says, shrugging on a light jacket over his black turtleneck. “But you owe me one, Saeyoung Choi.” 

Saeyoung gives a startled laugh edged with exhausted relief. 

Huh. So he was actually stressing over this. Zen feels a bit bad for making fun but, well. He’s still going isn’t he?

“Thanks a bunch!” Saeyoung says. “Keep an eye out for one of your fancams going viral.” 

“They can go viral without your help.” Zen rolls his eyes. “Anyway, do you want me to just escort him back to your place? I’d need to fuel up my bike—”

“If you take my brother on that thing, I’ll use the C&R direct line to call Jihyun’s emergency number and tell him that you’re endangering not only your own life, but the life of his two year passion project.” 

“Subway it is then,” Zen says, eyeing his motorcycle keys where they rest innocently on their hook. “...Two year...passion project?”

“Y’know, like building a treehouse,” Saeyoung offers. “Or cutting contact with your loved ones and running off to rehabilitate your pseudo-son in complete isolation. That sort of thing.” 

At least he can joke about it. 

Zen makes a mental note to grill Saeyoung later on when he plans to start therapy himself. If he invites Jaehee and Yoosung they could even make it an intervention. 

Zen sighs. “Can you send me the address of this place?” 

“Already did,” Saeyoung chirps, and sure enough when Zen picks up his phone again there’s a message that he has a new shared location. 

The therapy office is a ways away from Zen’s place, located on a side street next to a cluster of shops and eateries. The estimated travel time is a little under half an hour by train. 

“Got it. I’ll text you when I get there.” 

“Thanks again, Zen.” Saeyoung’s voice goes weirdly soft the way it does when he’s thinking about Saeran. “I really appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome, now get back to work.” Zen pauses with a finger over the end call button then brings the phone back to his ear. “And remember to take water breaks and to eat something other than chips, okay?” 

“Okay, Mom.” He can hear Saeyoung’s grin over the phone. “Want me to take the chicken out of the freezer too?” 

“I’m hanging up for real now,” Zen snaps, and he does so to the sound of Saeyoung’s laughter. 

**____________**

> **ZEN:** _[Image Attachment]_
> 
> **ZEN:** This place looks like a coffee shop…
> 
> **707:** That’s cuz it is! 
> 
> **ZEN:** -_-
> 
> **707:** The therapist’s office is on the second floor ^^
> 
> **ZEN:** Should I go in???
> 
> **707:** Ya lol
> 
> **707:** I texted Saeran already to let him know what’s up 
> 
> **707:** There’s a waiting room inside
> 
> **ZEN:** Okay… 

Zen pockets his phone and looks up at the quaint building. A sunny yellow awning casts dwindling shade over the entryway, bracketed by two trimmed shrubs. He’d passed it three times by accident thinking it was only a cafe and went number by number before realizing this was the place. 

There’s a second door to the right with a gilded plate, and upon walking up to it he’s greeted with an intercom along the siding. The door handle won’t budge so he presses down on the intercom's pinpad and starts when a shrill bell sounds. 

What follows is a good couple seconds of static, a mechanical click, and a woman’s voice crackling over the speakers. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” 

“Uh, hey, I’m here to meet someone,” Zen says, trying to figure out which part to speak into. “This is Hyun Ryu?” 

“Oh, you’re Saeran’s friend, right?” Her tone turns warm and welcoming. “His relative called ahead—come on in! ” 

The intercom light flashes once as the door audibly unlocks, and Zen can hear Saeyoung in his head telling him to send his thanks to “God Seven.” 

Zen makes his way up the stairs and through another door that opens into a cozy waiting area. A muted blue carpet and a pair of plush armchairs gives the room a homey feel while the frames on the walls showcase certificates and peaceful vistas. 

The woman he spoke to over the intercom is sitting at a desk in the far corner, typing away at a laptop with manicured nails. She has her light brown hair pulled up in a professional bun, and her outfit clearly telegraphs ‘young career woman.’ It reminds him a little of Jaehee before she had her drive stamped out by night after night of overtime. She looks up as he closes the door behind him. 

“Hi there—oh!” Her eyes scan up and down his body as a light flush colors her cheeks. 

“Is Saeran here?” Zen replies patiently.

The receptionist blinks like she doesn’t understand him. He tilts his head and that seems to bring her back to the present. 

“Saeran, yes, you’re here for Saeran,” she laughs to herself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s still in his appointment, but you’re welcome to take a seat while you wait.” 

“Thanks,” Zen says, smiling as the woman’s face grows redder. Privately, he hopes he won’t distract her too much from her work. 

She shakes her head as if to clear it. “Sorry, do you mind if I check your ID really quick?” 

“No problem,” Zen says, pulling his driver's license out of his wallet and bringing it up to the desk. He pretends not to notice as the woman fumbles while taking it from his hand. 

“Wow,” She holds the card up in front of her face. “I didn’t know ID photos could turn out this good!” 

Zen laughs. “I have a lot of experience in front of a camera, that’s all.” 

“Oh, really? I was just thinking before you looked like a model—” She cuts herself off, the blush returning to her face. “O-or rather, I thought you looked really familiar—” 

Before she can finish her thought, the office door opens, catching Zen's attention as Saeran steps into the waiting room. Outfitted in a neatly pressed button down and overcoat, he looks a million times better than the last time Zen saw him at the banquet. 

It’s an odd feeling, meeting someone in person when you’re used to associating them with text on a screen. Saeran is a bit shorter than him with a slight slouch to his posture as if he’s trying to take up less space. 

When he notices Zen’s presence his eyes go wide. 

“Zen?” 

“Good to see you again, Saeran,” Zen says with a smile.

“What are you doing here?” Saeran comes up to peer into Zen’s face like he’s a mirage. “Do you...also have an appointment?” 

Zen almost laughs before he realizes the question is genuine. Then he just feels like a jerk for nearly giving into the impulse. 

“Ah, no. Didn’t Saeyoung text you?” 

“I keep my phone off during my sessions,” Saeran explains, pulling out his device and powering it on. “Sorry, just a second.” 

Zen turns back to the receptionist to retrieve his license, only to realize she’s looking at him with more stars in her eyes than before.

“Did I hear that right?” she asks, practically vibrating with excitement. “You go by Zen?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a fan of my work,” he jokes, and she surprises him by nodding. 

“I knew you looked familiar! My friend took me to see a production you were in a while ago—your take on Zekyll and White was phenomenal!” 

“It means a lot to hear you enjoyed the performance.” Zen says, delighted to have chanced upon an admirer. “That role was definitely a challenge for me.” 

The woman shakes her head. “It didn’t seem that way at all, you were a natural. It was like watching two different people on stage!”

A disgruntled sound behind Zen distracts him again from their conversation. 

Saeran is frowning down at his phone, tapping out what looks like a paragraph long text. He looks up at Zen, a flash of embarrassment crossing his features. “Sorry you had to come all this way…”

“It was no trouble at all,” Zen replies truthfully. “I thought I’d take advantage of the chance to see you.”

Saeran averts his gaze, suddenly shy, twirling a ring on one of his fingers back and forth. 

Maybe he’s been a tad too truthful.

Saeran’s phone continues to buzz in his hand and he huffs. “We should probably get going…”

“Don’t forget your license,” The receptionist chimes in, holding it up for Zen to take. She pulls back when he reaches out. “That’ll be one autograph, please.”

Zen grins and picks up a pen from the table. “A hostage situation, eh? Guess I have no choice.” 

The woman—Jiyu, as she cheerfully informs him—giggles as he jots a short message onto her notepad underneath a scribbled appointment date. 

While Zen makes the exchange for his license, Saeran waits by the door, staring at the magazine covers on the coffee table and occasionally acknowledging them with a curious glance. 

As they leave, Jiyu calls after them. “Thanks for stopping by, Zen! See you next week, Saeran!” 

They step out into the cool evening air, the sun casting a warm glow on the buildings as it sets. Saeran looks to Zen with an expression somewhere between puzzled and amused. 

“Does that sort of thing happen often?” 

“Not as much as you’d expect,” Zen says with a sigh. “It’s rare for someone to know me for my acting. Most of the time people ask for a photo because I caught their eye.” He brings a hand to his chin. “But with a face like this how can I blame them?” 

Saeran frowns. “My brother didn’t blackmail you into this right?”

“Not at all,” Zen mentally runs through his last conversation with Saeyoung. “He just seemed really worried?”

Saeran shoves his hands in his pockets. "He does worry," he mumbles. "A lot."

Zen isn’t sure how to respond to that. 

_Sorry your brother thought you were dead for three years and is kinda overprotective now?_

Yeah. Right. 

A heavy silence falls between them—

—And Saeran’s stomach growls. 

“Did you eat?” Zen asks out of habit. 

Saeran covers his face with his hand. “Not since this morning,” he says, voice muffled. 

“You should be getting regular meals,” Zen chides. “Nutritional health is very important.” 

“...I’ll eat something when I get home.” 

That won’t do. The Choi house is at least half an hour away. Zen is pretty sure part of his job as Saeran’s de-facto chaperone is to keep him well fed, and Saeran is so thin already… 

He looks to the doorway of the small cafe that gave him pause when he first arrived. The sign on the door is a chalkboard with specials for the day along with the welcoming suggestion to _come make yourself at home._

“Is that place any good?” Zen nudges his head towards the restaurant. 

“I’m not sure,” Saeran admits. “I’ve never been inside.” 

Does Saeran head straight home from therapy every week? It seems like a waste now that he has freedom to go wherever he wants.

Then again, he doesn’t seem like the adventurous type. More like, the type that needs a push from behind. 

“Wanna try it out?” Zen doesn't wait for an answer, walking up to peer into the glass windows.

Saeran hesitates, glancing up and down the street before joining him. “I don’t have any money on me…” 

“It’s my treat,” Zen assures with a wink, and Saeran seems to smile without thought. 

It’s oddly refreshing. 

The inside of the cafe is quaint like the outside, with rose colored wallpaper, bell-shaped light fixtures and a smattering of two-seater tables that are almost devoid of customers. The only other people there are a university student hunched over her books and a young couple sharing some ice cream. 

The employee at the counter does a double take as Zen and Saeran approach, but thankfully doesn’t stare while they look over the menu. The selection is standard for a trendy cafe, and Zen quickly settles on a garden salad and iced coffee. 

He notices Saeran eyeing the servers with trepidation. 

“I can order for us if you’re ready,” Zen says. “Why don’t you choose a table?”

Saeran’s shoulders immediately relax from their tensed position and he nods, pointing to a spot on the menu. 

Green tea and a parfait—with strawberries, fudge and vanilla ice cream, no less. Not exactly what Zen meant by a nutritional meal but he doesn’t have the heart to say so.

After relaying their orders, Zen hangs around to watch the barista brew his coffee, getting lost in the repetitive motions. His thoughts drift so much that he has to shake himself out of a stupor once two cups are pushed his way across the counter. He grabs their drinks and joins Saeran at the table he’s chosen for them sequestered away from the front windows. 

Saeran is fiddling with his phone again, but he puts it down as Zen approaches, accepting his tea with a mumble of thanks. 

“Did therapy go well today?” Zen asks, faltering as he takes his seat. “Actually, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Jihyun didn't give many details of what transpired over the time Saeran was missing. It seemed everyone else was content to leave bad memories behind. But Zen supposes the road to recovery is longer than a couple years, hence Saeran’s continued therapy visits. He'd hate to overstep any boundaries as he doesn't have much experience with this stuff—but a part of him is still interested.

Luckily, Saeran doesn’t seem to mind. He stares into his mug, wrapping both hands around it like he’s trying to siphon off heat from the ceramic. 

“It went well,” he responds. “It’s a lot of talking about myself.”

“Oh?” 

“Stuff like, how I’m feeling, if my mood has changed recently, what I’ve been up to—” 

“What have you been up to lately?” Zen asks, perking up. “We don’t get many chances to chat in the messenger.” 

Saeran looks to be wracking his brain as he blows on his tea. “I think I just forgot everything I’ve done recently.”

Zen snorts and Saeran covers a nervous grin with the edge of his mug. The steam from the tea is still rising as he takes a sip, flinching at the temperature. 

“Sorry to put you on the spot like that,” Zen says, leaning back. “How about I go first? I’m kind of a workaholic, so all I really do is stuff related to my job.” 

He’d managed to score the main love interest of a fairly well known musical that’s been sweeping the theatre circuit. The role isn’t very challenging, but Jaehee claims taking on these kinds of productions gets him a huge amount of fansite activity. 

And anyway, Zen’s a romantic at heart. There’s nothing wrong with choosing a role within his comfort zone now and then.

He narrates this to Saeran who nods along, taking occasional sips of his drink. 

“I don’t know much about theatre,” Saeran offers. “What makes a role challenging?” 

Zen ponders this for a moment, taking time to finally strip the paper packaging from his straw. He mixes his latte and makes a face when it turns out too sweet for his liking. 

Pushing it aside he says finally, “That’s a difficult question."

“I’m sorry, I hadn’t realized,” Saeran says, his eyes dropping to the table. That tiny motion is enough to make Zen feel irresponsible. 

“No, no, you don’t have to apologize,” he assures. “I only say it’s difficult because acting comes so naturally for me. When something is missing from a performance it’s hard to pinpoint what isn’t clicking.” 

Saeran carefully lifts his gaze and nods. 

“I think I see what you mean...” he says. “It’s like when you’re writing code but you end up missing an essential line. When you try and integrate everything at the end, the code won’t run. It’s bothersome having to go back and figure out what needs fixing if you don’t know what you’re looking for.” 

Zen blinks as Saeran’s words go in one ear and out the other. Integrate? Run? It’s easy to forget as it doesn’t usually come up in his messages, but Saeran is as much a super genius as his brother. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Zen says eventually. 

Saeran seems to realize he’s lost Zen with his loaded description as a light tinge of color dusts his cheeks. He rotates his mug a couple times in his hands before speaking. 

“H-how about that role you mentioned before?” he says with a pause. “Zekyll and Hyde?”

“Zekyll and White.” Zen blows out a gust of air. “Man, talk about challenging. I was agonizing over that role for weeks!”

“Who did you play?” 

“The protagonist,” Zen says, “or protagonists, so to speak.” 

“You played both?” Saeran furrows his brows. “That does sound difficult. How did they manage when the two characters were on stage at the same time?”

“You aren’t familiar with the musical?”

Saeran shakes his head in confirmation. “Not at all.”

“Get this,” Zen leans across the table for dramatic effect. “The main character is a famous doctor trying to find a cure for his father’s illness. He tests this potion on himself, only to discover it created a second personality that's pure evil.” 

Saeran’s face is curiously blank. “Dual personality?” 

“Yup,” Zen says sitting back in his chair. “Basically, I had to portray two different characters in one body. Pretty interesting, right?” 

Saeran is quiet for a long moment, bringing the tea to his lips without taking a sip. The shadow cast by his bangs obscures his expression, but his fingers press the smallest amount tighter around his cup, causing it to tremble slightly in his hold. 

Strange. Zen feels like he misstepped, somehow.

A waitress comes to his rescue, plopping their orders down and breaking the tension. Zen thanks her in a daze, and when he turns back Saeran has lost all signs of strain in his limbs. Instead, he looks at the parfait before him with poorly restrained excitement, his eyes roving around his food like he can’t decide where to start. 

“You really like sweet things, huh?” Zen observes, letting the previous topic drop. 

Saeran looks up with a start, as if he forgot Zen was there. 

“I love them,” he replies, a little self consciously. “We don’t usually have dessert like this at home—unless I make it myself.” 

“You cook?” Zen takes the cup of olive oil provided with his meal and drizzles it over his salad. He doesn’t miss the strange juxtaposition of the dishes between the two of them. 

“Almost everyday,” Saeran says. “Saeyoung put me in charge of meals when he realized I wouldn’t let him live off junk food...” 

“I’m glad there’s someone around to look after him,” Zen laughs. 

Saeran gives a half shrug. “I guess that counts as what I’ve been up to. Do you cook for yourself?”

“Me?” Zen points to himself with his fork. “If you consider instant rice and curry as cooking—Hah, no. I eat out for the most part.” 

Saeran hesitates. “...Forgive me for imposing, but it’s important to make sure you’re eating proper meals.”

“Oh? Giving me a taste of my own medicine?” Zen says, chuckling as Saeran begins to shake his head. “Kidding, kidding. You’re right after all. If I had more time I’d definitely work on my skills in the kitchen. Unfortunately, my job has me getting home at odd hours so I can’t be too picky.”

Saeran scoops some ice-cream and takes a bite, sliding the spoon across his lower lip. “I see…” 

A comfortable silence falls between them as they dig into their food. While Zen eats, he sneaks glances at Saeran, who looks truly content making his way through the parfait. Even in such nondescript clothing he matches the sweet image of his dessert. What did they call that? Effortless charm? 

Saeran says something too soft for Zen to make out, abruptly pulling him from his thoughts. 

“Sorry?” 

“I’d like to cook for you sometime,” Saeran repeats. “As thanks for treating me.” 

He fiddles with his spoon, tracing it around the edge of his parfait glass. His words are casual but the way he deliberately avoids Zen’s gaze hints that he’s bracing himself for rejection. 

Zen places a hand on the table and leans forward, tilting his head to make eye contact. “I would love that,” he says, sincerity turning his words more honeyed than he’d intended. 

The effect it has on Saeran is subtle, but Zen still catches the upturn of his lips and a small breath of relief. 

Zen files that reaction away in his memory as a warm feeling settles in his chest. It remains there throughout the rest of their meal, thrumming on the cramped subway ride where they have to sit shoulder to shoulder. Even after parting at Saeran’s stop, the small wave he gives from the platform sustains Zen’s good mood until he’s returned to the quiet of his empty apartment. 


	3. hearth and home

Cooler weather signals the season has begun to turn, and the trees are a shade paler than they were the month before. Saeran’s plants look well tended as always, unaffected by the chill that creeps under Zen’s coat collar as he waits outside the Choi residence. 

Saeyoung started searching for a new place to live shortly after reuniting with Saeran, as everyone agreed the bunker wasn’t exactly a welcome environment for his brother’s homecoming. 

The two story white villa they settled on had struck Zen as surprisingly unassuming for someone with Saeyoung’s wealth, but finding a house in a quiet, out of the way area so close to the city spoke to the probable property value—not to mention the sizable lawn turned garden. 

He’s admiring a blooming rose bush from the stoop when Saeran opens the front door wearing the cutest baby blue apron Zen has ever seen. Dark blue flower details are stitched along the seams running from top to bottom, and there's even a rabbit embroidered into the chest pocket. 

Saeran follows Zen’s gaze to his clothing. 

“Hana bought this as a housewarming gift,” he says, smoothing a hand down invisible wrinkles in the material. “It doesn’t suit me very much, does it?” 

“Are you kidding?” Zen asks, giving him an appraising look. “I can’t imagine anyone _but_ you pulling it off.” He pauses at length to think it over. “Well, I might be able to with the right styling—” 

Saeran smothers a laugh, his face lighting up in that way Zen is becoming fond of. “Maybe I’ll let you try it on later.”

Saeran ushers him into the entryway so he can take off his shoes, and Zen gets a chance to glance around at the furnishings, all muted greens and comforting, warm colors. The last time he was here was for a party Saeyoung threw when they first moved in, and the place looks completely different now. It isn’t hard to guess which of the brothers has an eye for decor. 

Zen follows Saeran into the kitchen and takes note of the ingredients spread across the counter. There are a few empty cans of PhD. Pepper pushed to the back, probably to recycle later. He feels like something is missing from this scene…

“Where’s Seven?” 

“Work,” Saeran says, pulling a skillet out from an upper cabinet. “He asked me to send his regards.” 

Zen stops in his tracks. “He did?” 

Saeran pauses with one hand on a burner dial. “...He actually said, ‘Give Zen a kiss for me.’ I interpreted that as I saw fit.” 

Zen rolls his eyes, suddenly thankful to C&R corp for occupying Saeyoung’s time. “What’s on the menu for today?”

“Sushi rolls with avocado and beef,” Saeran says, placing a cutting board on the counter and gathering vegetables to wash. 

Zen perks up. “I really like those.” 

“I know,” Saeran murmurs, and Zen feels a jolt of surprise in his stomach. 

He watches Saeran from behind, the way the fabric of his sweater tugs at his back as he runs vegetables under water. His hair has grown out a bit, white strands brushing the nape of his neck and curling under his ears. It looks soft. He wonders if Saeran styles it. 

Zen blinks, suddenly remembering the extra weight in his hand.

“Is there anywhere I can put this?” he asks, lifting the paper bag he’d forgotten he was carrying. “I brought dessert.” 

Saeran turns to look at him, hands paused under the streaming water. “You shouldn’t have…” 

“It's cake from this famous dessert place,” Zen grins, shaking the bag. “Usually you have to line up half an hour in advance to even get a slice, but they let me right in.” 

Saeran smiles at Zen’s enthusiasm. “That was nice of them.” 

“I know right? Though, the owner kept insisting I let him model a dessert after me…” Zen sighs mournfully. “As delicious as that would probably be, I can’t allow just anyone to use my likeness.” 

Saeran nods. “And If it looked too much like you no one could bring themselves to eat it.” 

“Exactly!” Zen exclaims. 

Saeran turns back to the sink, his shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. “You can put it in the fridge. Feel free to move stuff around if there isn’t space.” 

Zen does as he’s told, pushing an absurd number of soda cans aside so he can wedge the bag in. When he closes the fridge door something catches his eye. 

Held up by magnets is a commemorative photo from the last party. Zen lingers on everyone’s overjoyed expressions and Saeran’s subtle contentment where he stands with his brother’s arm around his shoulder. 

Next to that picture are some shots of a young boy with an angelic face and fire-truck red hair. 

“Please tell me these aren’t of Saeyoung,” Zen says, tapping the fridge. “I refuse to believe he was ever this pure.” 

Saeran glances up from where he’s drying off some carrots. “Ah- no. That’s me.”

“Gosh, and I thought I was a cute kid.” Zen studies a photo of Saeran gazing up at a butterfly, his wide eyes full of innocent curiosity. This is the child who makes you late to appointments because of all the people fawning over him in the supermarket. “Who took these?” 

“I don’t remember,” Saeran says succinctly, and Zen decides not to dig too deeply into that. “Honestly, I don’t know why Saeyoung put them up.”

Zen can guess why. The Saeran in these photos is frozen in time, safe and happy. Perhaps it’s a reminder for both brothers that there was a before and that they’re living the after. Saeran’s sweet smile is evidence of that. It’s almost unfathomable that anyone would have intentionally done harm to the little boy in these photos. 

Zen traces Saeran’s small features with his fingernail. “You resembled Seven a lot more when you were younger.”

“We _are_ twins,” Saeran says, giving a grunt as his knife fails to cut clean through a stalk. “Though it may not look that way now…” 

Zen can sense that the conversation is taking an uncomfortable turn, so he decides to move on—but not before snapping a discreet shot of the photos on the fridge with his phone, just to appease his sentimental side. 

“Do you need any help?” he asks, coming to hover next to Saeran. 

“I’m okay,” Saeran says, choosing a sharper looking blade and making quick work of the carrots. He cuts them lengthwise, creating a careful stack so he can bring the knife down in rapid motions. It looks exactly like techniques Zen’s seen on TV. 

“You’re really skilled with knives,” he says offhandedly and Saeran’s rhythm falters. 

“Thanks I guess?” he mutters, moving on to slicing open an avocado. Their elbows bump, so Zen shifts behind him, bracing a hand against the counter as he leans forward to peek over Saeran’s shoulder. 

His hair looks even silkier up close, smooth like dove feathers, and Zen can’t help but notice how nice he smells—a light, floral scent with notes reminiscent of chamomile tea. 

“Is there something on my face?” Saeran asks, interrupting his train of thought. 

Zen examines Saeran’s profile. The shell of his ear is pink and his gaze is locked downwards though his hands have halted their task. “No, why?”

“Nevermind,” Saeran says, and turns to retrieve something, only to run directly into Zen’s arm. He steps backwards as if his sense of direction is muddled, jostling them both while the knife slips from his grasp and clatters to the countertop. 

“Whoa there,” Zen’s hands come up on instinct to skirt over Saeran’s slender hips, steadying him in place as his back presses flush to Zen’s chest. “Careful.”

“Zen,” Saeran’s voice sticks oddly as he moves out of Zen’s space to support his own weight. “Actually, do you think you could lay out the seaweed and rice?

“Sure thing,” Zen says, already rolling up his sleeves. 

He manages to put everything together with minimal supervision, and Saeran shoos him away once he’s done his part, stating that he shouldn’t overextend himself as a guest. 

To occupy his time, Zen grabs a seat at the kitchen table and opens up the messenger.

> **ZEN:** Hey guys
> 
> **ZEN:** Try not to get too jealous 
> 
> **ZEN:** but I have my own personal chef now! lol
> 
> **Yoosung★:** What?!
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Since when??
> 
> **Jumin Han:** I’ve had a personal chef since I was a child. 
> 
> **Jumin Han:** They’re quite convenient. 
> 
> **ZEN:** Ugh ;;
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Zen, you’re with Saeran today? 
> 
> **ZEN:** !! 
> 
> **ZEN:** How’d you know?
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** It was the first thing Saeyoung mentioned when he arrived. ^^; 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Well,
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** I say mentioned
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** but complained ****would be a better word.
> 
> **Yoosung **★:**** What does he have to complain about?
> 
> **Yoosung **★:**** Besides working for Jumin lol 
> 
> **Jumin Han:** …
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** ...Ahem
> 
> **Jumin Han:** I’d like to know as well. 
> 
> **Jumin Han:** What is there to complain of?
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** He keeps sighing and muttering ‘sushi rolls’ to himself. 
> 
> **Yoosung **★:****?
> 
> **Yoosung **★:**** Sushi rolls???
> 
> **ZEN:** That guy,,,
> 
> **ZEN:** He eats Saeran’s cooking every day,,, 
> 
> **Yoosung **★** : **Oh! I get it!
> 
> **Yoosung **★** : **So Saeran is making you food?
> 
> **Yoosung **★** :** Lucky~ 
> 
> **ZEN:** Ikr? :) 
> 
> **Jumin:** I see.
> 
> **Jumin:** Saeyoung is upset he can’t have homemade sushi rolls.
> 
> **Yoosung **★** : **More like
> 
> **Yoosung **★** : **he’s upset Zen’s monopolizing his brother again lol 
> 
> **ZEN:** Hey
> 
> **ZEN:** When I have ever monopolized him?
> 
> **Yoosung **★:**** Ummm, at the picnic last month
> 
> **Yoosung **★** :** when you two went off to take pictures together! 
> 
> **ZEN:** *It isn’t every day I get a chance to pose alongside the beauty of nature*
> 
> **ZEN:** and...
> 
> **ZEN:** Saeran wanted to take pictures of flowers. ^^
> 
> **Jumin Han:** I seem to recall you were gone for an hour and twenty-eight minutes.
> 
> **ZEN:** Quite the memory you’ve got there… 
> 
> **ZEN:** That’s not
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Thank you.
> 
> **ZEN:** a compliment.
> 
> **ZEN:** …
> 
> **ZEN:** Anyway, that was one time.
> 
> **Yoosung **★** :** What about when we hung out at Jihyun and Hana’s place
> 
> **Yoosung★:** and you ended up giving him a piano lesson? 
> 
> **ZEN:** Well
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Or the other day when you took him to pick out a new coat
> 
> **ZEN:** there’s a simple explanation.
> 
> **Yoosung★:** and then coordinated a whole outfit for him.
> 
> **ZEN:** Yoosung. 
> 
> **Yoosung★:** ?
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** I’m sure Saeyoung doesn’t mind if Saeran spends time with other people. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** He gives off a rather reserved vibe
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** but opens up much more around you, Zen.
> 
> **Yoosung★:** It’s kinda funny lol
> 
> **Yoosung★:** You guys are nothing alike but get along so well
> 
> **Yoosung★:** like those videos of odd animal couples lolol
> 
> **Jumin Han:** I’ve seen those.
> 
> **Jumin Han:** There was one between a dog and a rabbit.
> 
> **ZEN:** Saeran as a rabbit is a refreshing image~ 
> 
> **ZEN:** Instead of a dog,
> 
> **ZEN:** I’d be a majestic animal like a wolf or a stallion!
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Oh!! 
> 
> **Yoosung★:** What about me??
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Duckling.
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Why?!
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Yellow. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Anyway,
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** It’s nice to see you’re getting along.
> 
> **ZEN:** Thanks!
> 
> **ZEN:** Tell Seven if wants sushi rolls that badly he can stop by the convenience store on his way home lmao
> 
> **Jumin Han:** They sell such a thing in stores?
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Naturally.
> 
> **Yoosung★:** I wanna eat Saeran’s sushi rolls T_T
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** I’d like to try them too. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Saeran is a splendid cook. 

Saeran drags Zen’s attention from his phone, setting down two glasses of iced tea and nudging one in his direction. “Are you using the messenger?”

“Yeah, check it out,” Zen says, turning his phone screen towards Saeran. “Everyone really likes your cooking.” 

“That’s…very nice of them,” Saeran grows flustered as he scans the last few messages, his fingers wringing the lap of his apron. “Can you let them know they’re welcome anytime?” 

“Anytime but today,” Zen says with a grin. “Today I get you all to myself.”

 _Hm,_ Zen thinks, hit by a flash of awareness. _Maybe that was a weird thing to say_. 

Saeran just laughs softly, the tight grip on his apron loosening. “I’m all yours.” 

_Hm._

Zen quickly passes along Saeran’s offer in the chat and stands from his chair. “Is the food almost ready?”

“There’s one last step,” Saeran replies, gesturing to the rice Zen spread out earlier. “We have to roll the ingredients together.” 

Zen lets Saeran demonstrate the proper rolling technique. It doesn’t look very difficult, but Zen’s attempt ends up with rice bursting from the edges of the seaweed. 

He pulls over a third prepped sheet and positions his hands at the bottom, trying to mimic the way Saeran showed him. So focused on getting it right, he almost doesn’t register the sensation of hands sliding over his own. 

“Hold it like this,” Saeran says from close beside him.

Saeran’s nail beds are weathered and chapped, yet his hands are soft, the delicate way they’re positioned hinting at their dexterity. 

Zen doesn’t move a single muscle as Saeran manipulates his fingers so they work in tandem, gathering up the beef, carrots, and avocado in one smooth motion. 

“Good job,” Saeran says with an indulgent smile. 

Zen is left to stare dumbly at the roll beneath his hands until Saeran slides a plate under his nose, beckoning him to come eat. 


	4. a gift given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At one point in his route, Zen says he'd like to know how it feels to have someone he cherishes watch him perform from the audience. This chapter was partially inspired by that!

> **Saeran:** Hi, Zen. 
> 
> **ZEN:** Hey! 
> 
> **ZEN:** How are you, Saeran? 
> 
> **Saeran:** I’m well. 
> 
> **ZEN:** Did you have a good breakfast?
> 
> **ZEN:** Something healthy? 
> 
> **Saeran:** I ate vanilla yogurt with fruit. 
> 
> **ZEN:** That’s great! ^^
> 
> **Saeran:** :) 
> 
> **Saeran:** What are you doing today?
> 
> **ZEN:** I have a show coming up soon
> 
> **ZEN:** so there’s rehearsal from dawn till dusk…
> 
> **Saeran:** You’re working hard. 
> 
> **Saeran:** Is this show the one you told me about before?
> 
> **ZEN:** Yup.
> 
> **ZEN:** The one where I play the dashing love interest~
> 
> **ZEN:** I’m proud of how it’s shaping up.
> 
> **Saeran:** I wish I could see it…
> 
> **ZEN:** Rlaelly?!!!?
> 
> **ZEN:** *Really???
> 
> **ZEN:** You want to see me perform???
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Saeran, are you serious about this?
> 
> **ZEN:** Jaehee? 
> 
> **ZEN:** When did you get here?
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Doesn’t matter.
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** What matters is Saeran’s interest in attending Zen’s performance. 
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Good for you Zen!
> 
> **ZEN:** Yoosung??
> 
> **Yoosung★:** hi lol
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** Should I also reveal myself? ^^;
> 
> **ZEN:** How many people are logged in right now?
> 
> **707:** check the top of the screen dude lolol 
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Hello. 
> 
> **ZEN:** You were all here? ;;;
> 
> **ZEN:** No one spoke up before…
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** I didn’t want to interrupt your nice chat with Saeran.
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Ya same
> 
> **Yoosung★:** felt bad lol
> 
> **707:** Wait, about Zen’s show
> 
> **707:** Saeran,
> 
> **707:** is that something you’d actually be interested in?
> 
> **707:** It’s okay if you just said it to be nice lmao
> 
> **Saeran:** I’m interested.
> 
> **Saeran:** I’ve never seen a live musical before.
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** There’s so much we have to cover. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Would you be able to acquire a lightstick?
> 
> **Saeran:** Light stick? 
> 
> **Saeran:** Do you mean a flashlight?
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** Hmm
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** That reminds me
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** It’s been a while since I’ve seen you perform, Zen.
> 
> **Yoosung★:** Could this be…
> 
> **Yoosung★:** the beginnings of an RFA field trip?!
> 
> **ZEN:** I can’t reserve seats for u guys… 
> 
> **Jumin Han:** That won’t be a problem.
> 
> **ZEN:** Not you too -_-
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Assistant Kang
> 
> **Jumin Han:** I presume it won’t be difficult to purchase a sufficient number of tickets. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** …...Using C&R funds?
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Do you have any objections?
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** NO
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** No, sir. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Six in total?
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** Seven, please. 
> 
> **Jihyun Kim:** Hana will definitely want to come ^^
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** Of course. 
> 
> **707:** @_@
> 
> **707:** Does this mean I get off from work Bossman? +_+
> 
> **Jumin Han:** Yes.
> 
> **707:** Zen
> 
> **707:** I owe you my life <3
> 
> **ZEN:** I don’t know whether to be touched or terrified. 
> 
> **Yoosung★:** No pressure or anything 
> 
> **Yoosung★:** but I better get my money’s worth 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** You aren’t even paying…
> 
> **Yoosung★:** I’m expecting the worth of the money I didn’t pay!
> 
> **Jumin Han:** You have good business sense. 
> 
> **Jaehee Kang:** ;;;; 
> 
> **ZEN:** psh
> 
> **ZEN:** I’d never put on a bad show.
> 
> **ZEN:** You’ll be a fan for life by the end!
> 
> **Saeran:** I’m looking forward to it. 
> 
> **ZEN:** :) 

_________

The stage lights are too bright for Zen to actually recognize any faces in the crowd during the performance, and he’s not about to jeopardize his acting by taking a second to squint out into a pitch black theatre. Still, the knowledge that the RFA is sitting somewhere near encourages him to give a hundred and ten percent. After final bows, the director even claps him on the shoulder, praising him for a job well done. 

Zen has just gotten his stuff together when he spots his friends milling around the far side of the emptying stage. Saeyoung and Jaehee are tugging at a banner spread between them as if arguing over who gets to hold it while Yoosung watches, balancing four lightsticks in one arm. Jumin and Jihyun seem to be doing their best to not be associated with the commotion. 

He doesn’t see Hana until he checks a little further back to where she and Saeran are sitting up against a metal support beam. 

Hana is talking animatedly while Saeran looks on with a soft smile, occasionally nodding his head. Zen can’t make out what they’re saying from this far away, but the atmosphere around them is peaceful, like they’re in their own separate bubble apart from the crowd. Saeran says something which makes Hana throw back her head and laugh. She ruffles his hair and he practically glows under her praise.

As Zen continues to watch the two of them, the after-show high he’s been riding begins to fade, replaced by something close to weariness. He’s blindsided by an unexplainable urge to just turn around and go out the backstage door as he usually does. 

But then Hana notices him and jumps up, waving—which of course gets everyone else’s attention—and Zen has no choice but to make his way over. 

The first thing that happens is he gets an armful of Hana Kim, and that’s enough to wipe away the bit of fatigue that overcame him before. 

“God— let me go, I’m gross!” Zen laughs, swatting lightly at her arms where they’re wrapped around his midsection. “Save the hugs for after I've showered.” 

“You were amazing, Zen!” Hana exclaims, squeezing tight for another few seconds before letting go. “I think the entire theatre fell in love!” 

“How in the world am I going to deal with so many admirers?” Zen sighs, shaking his head and Hana giggles. 

“Leave some for the rest of us, Hana,” Saeyoung materializes at Zen’s side, apparently having relinquished the banner to Jaehee. “Where’s my hug?” 

Zen wrinkles his nose. “You sound like a creepy old man.” 

“Oh, I see how it is,” Saeyoung feigns hurt like he’s the one who just stepped off the stage. “It’s fine when a cute girl does it but when it’s a slightly below average guy suddenly Zen hugs are in short supply.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Hana chides, bumping their shoulders. “You’re definitely at least average.”

Jihyun comes up beside his wife and Hana almost instinctively links their arms. It’s stupidly adorable and makes Zen feel extremely single. 

“Careful calling other men average,” Zen says. “You’ll make Jihyun jealous.” 

Jihyun, paragon of serenity that he is, doesn’t look the least bit bothered. He smiles, inclining his head. “You put on a phenomenal show as always.”

“Congratulations, Zen,” Jumin interjects in his usual monotone, leafing through his program. “Your star power is truly unparalleled.” 

“I get that you’re complimenting me but I kind of want to hit you right now,” Zen says, and Jumin simply raises a brow. 

“He didn’t check his phone the entire time,” Saeyoung points out.

Jumin frowns. “Turning off electronics during a show is proper etiquette.” 

“Even during intermission?” Saeyoung counters and Jumin’s silence is nearly contemplative. 

Jaehee drifts at the edge of their circle, brimming with restrained energy like she’s seconds away from launching into a spiel about the show. When Zen finally turns her way she does just that, praising everything from his interpretation of the character, to the intonation he used on specific lines. 

“You must have been born to play this role,” she gushes, crushing the fabric of the banner in her enthusiasm. “Your chemistry with the main actress was so believable.” 

“A little too believable,” Yoosung adds, narrowing his eyes. “You’re not hiding anything from us, right?”

Jaehee answers for Zen, snapping a quick “Of course not!” which has Yoosung shrinking back with a pout. 

“I was kidding! Geez…” 

Jaehee huffs, adjusting her glasses. “You should know a joke like that can ruin careers.”

Zen assures them it’s not a big deal and thanks everyone a second time. “I really appreciate you guys coming today.”

“Does that mean you’ll let us treat you to celebratory hotpot?” Hana asks with a nudge. “After you shower of course.” 

Zen checks the time on his cell, estimating the trip home and subsequent freshening up. “Sure. If it’s not too far away I can be there in like half an hour.”

“That's fine!” Hana says with a wave of her hand. “We all came here in one of Jumin’s limos so there’s no rush.” 

Zen hikes his bag over his shoulder, ready to say his goodbyes, but Jihyun clears his throat and throws a significant look towards his wife. 

“...Aren’t you forgetting something?” 

Hana blinks back at him for a beat before realization dawns on her face and she grabs Zen’s wrist. “Come here for a sec,” she says, tugging him a few feet to the back of the theatre. 

Saeran is still crouched where Zen first spotted him, though now he’s fiddling with his phone, the screen washing his face in cool tones. Zen knows Saeran isn’t a fan of crowds, and even alone in this shadowed corner he seems a touch overwhelmed. Their approach startles him into glancing up. 

Zen wordlessly holds out a hand and is delighted when Saeran takes it without a second of hesitation.

“Hi,” Saeran says, stumbling a bit as he stands, using Zen’s arm as a steady weight to balance himself upright. 

“Hey.” Zen can’t help the way his voice dips into affectionate warmth as he gives Saeran’s hand a squeeze before letting go. Though a touch formal for the occasion, Saeran in a sweater vest and soft cream button down never fails to soothe the aesthetically driven corner of his soul. 

“I don’t want to ruin the surprise, but Saeran was _super_ excited to see you perform.” Hana gives a cheeky wink and slinks back over to her husband, taking Jihyun’s hand as they turn towards the group. 

Saeran, for his part, looks unphased by her less than subtle hints as he clutches a lumpy tote bag to his side.

Zen tilts his head. “Should I ask about this surprise?”

“It’s nothing big,” Saeran says and reaches into his tote to pull out a small, well kept bouquet of light red carnations, accentuated with wisps of tiny white flowers. “These are supposed to be from everyone, but…”

“But you picked them out yourself,” Zen concludes, and he feels an irrepressible grin work its way onto his face when Saeran nods. 

“I knew you liked flowers but I wasn’t sure which ones were your favorite,” Saeran says, smoothing down a leaf. “I hope these are okay.”

While he does have gift-baskets from fans show up at his apartment, Zen can’t remember the last time someone gifted him flowers right after a performance—it must’ve been years ago. If any of the others guys in the RFA had gotten him flowers he’d probably have made fun of them at least a little, but the thought of Saeran picking out a bouquet especially for him is too sweet to laugh at. 

“They’re more than okay,” Zen says, gently taking the bouquet in his hands and turning it clockwise so the scent of carnations wafts into the air. “This just made my night.” 

“I’m glad,” Saeran’s smile telegraphs relief. “They have a special meaning.”

“Really? What’s that?” 

“That I admire you,” Saeran says, going slightly pink. “They symbolize admiration.” 

“Gah...” Zen clutches his free hand to his chest like he’s been dealt a mortal blow. “You got me straight through the heart!” 

Saeran has always been wonderfully tolerant of his thearetics. He laughs, shaking his head. “I didn’t intend to make this your last performance.” 

“Even if it was,” Zen says, the words flowing like lines from a script. “I’d be satisfied knowing it was you who did me in.” 

“...You sound like you’re still in character,” Saeran mumbles, turning his head away and shifting his bag to his other arm. Zen knows him well enough now to pinpoint this reaction as shyness rather than discomfort. Really, he’s too easy to rile up—but that’s fun in it’s own way. 

“So- admiration.” Zen gives Saeran a sly look. “Does that mean I've gained a fan?” 

“I think I was already your fan,” Saeran says, tilting his head in consideration. “I’ve always admired your work ethic and thought you were talented, seeing you on stage affirmed how I already felt—it was mesmerizing. ” 

This feels like payback somehow. Zen’s face grows warm as all clever rejoinders are wiped from his mind. There’s still the same easy gratitude he experiences when anyone pays him a compliment, but unexpected giddiness follows close at its heels. Maybe it’s because Saeran is usually so reserved in his opinions on others that being praised feels like a huge accomplishment. 

“Wow. I don’t know what to say,” Zen admits, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Saeran mirrors Zen’s embarrassment, shifting from side to side. “Was that too much? Hana said I should tell people how I feel more often but I’m not very good at it yet.”

“No, no, I do appreciate it, I’m thrilled!” Zen reassures. “Like, it’s so nice to hear you complimenting me that I can’t process it. I kind of want a recording, actually…”

Saeran gives a startled laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “What are you trying to say?” 

“I’m _trying_ to reassure you,” Zen settles the bouquet in the crook of his arm. “Did it work?” 

Saeran hums by way of an answer, glancing down at the flowers. “You should put those in water right when you get home. Make sure you cut the stems at an angle so they’re not sitting flat, and put them in the fridge before you go to sleep— it makes them last longer. There’s a packet of flower food tied to the stems—” 

“Should I be writing this down?” 

Saeran shakes his head. “I can text you about it later.” 

“Or give me a list at dinner?” Zen offers, already envisioning what he’ll have to go through to ensure they sit next to each other. 

Saeran nods as a distracted look crosses his features, his brows furrowing. He lifts a hand to Zen’s eye level, stopping just short of making contact with his cheek and asks, “May I touch you?” 

Zen’s lips part and his words stick on his tongue. “Yes- sure. Okay.”

Saeran’s touch is light at first, his fingers skimming across the ridge of Zen’s cheekbones to rest right above the curve of his ear. Zen is transfixed by the concentration in Saeran’s gaze, the way he worries at his bottom lip. He swipes at the skin underneath Zen’s eye and pulls away without fanfare. 

Saeran presents a smudge of the stage makeup Zen put on before the show and rubs it away between his fingers. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “It was bothering me.”

Zen opens his mouth—either to thank Saeran or to voice something incredibly stupid—but before he has the chance he feels an object thump painlessly against the back of his skull. 

Zen whips around to find Saeyoung standing with an arm poised holding up a lightstick. He pauses, caught red handed, and then brings down the lightstick a second time anyway, bopping the crown of Zen’s head. 

“What are you—” Zen begins, and has to hold up his arm to block another swing. 

Saeran says his brother's name in warning, and Saeyoung immediately complies, dropping the makeshift baton so it hangs harmless by the strap around his wrist.

He proceeds to ignore Zen completely, edging past him to address Saeran. “We’re all ready to go. You coming?” 

Saeran looks between them both, lingering on Zen’s head as if worried the plastic lightstick actually did any damage. “I’ll see you later, Zen.” 

Still trying to process the past minute, Zen can only manage a halfhearted wave. He waits around just long enough to watch the twins as they leave through the side entrance, but can’t even collect enough sense to feel indigent when Saeyoung faces him a final time and sticks out his tongue like a child. 


	5. special treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sickfic interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the MM wiki, Zen has never had a cold. First time for everything, right? 
> 
> Happy New Year to anyone reading this when it updates! Here's to a better 2021.

It starts with bouts of sneezing.

They come and go throughout the afternoon, hitting him in random intervals on his run and once at the convenience store, where he attracts the attention of an old woman who comments on his lack of a scarf.

While he appreciates the sentiment, winter weather has never bothered him, and the sneezing fits continue even once he’s returned to his radiator-warmed apartment. He studies every inch of his outfit, and there’s no evidence he’s been sabotaged with a cleverly placed tuft of cat fur. 

The whole thing leaves him puzzled, but at the end of the day he’s able to shrug it off and go to bed without any serious concerns.

It’s only when he wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache that worry begins to set in. 

Each one of his limbs feels heavier than normal, and he has to drag himself out from his warm cocoon of blankets to stumble from the bed to his bathroom.

Turning the faucet on full blast, Zen makes the effort to bend over so he can inelegantly drink straight from the tap. The cold water momentarily soothes the burn at the back of his throat, but when he pulls away, droplets sliding down his neck and jaw, the scratchy feeling is still present—a thick weight that dredges up a cough every time he tries to swallow around it. 

He braces his forearms against the sink and looks blearily into the mirror, taking in the dark rings under his eyes. He hasn’t felt this awful since the morning after Hana’s birthday party when he’d attempted to outdrink Jumin and discovered the guy could really hold his wine. 

Zen sneezes hard, the motion rattling his brain painfully in his skull. Even that wicked hangover hadn’t come with any of these unbearable bonuses. 

A wave of nausea curls in his gut, and he forces it back down, unwilling to spend any time clinging to the toilet seat. Instead he decides to run a shower, counting on the warm water to reset his senses. 

It ends up not helping much at all. Defeated, Zen changes back into sleepwear instead of his day clothes. He returns to sit on the bed, watching the red numbers of his alarm clock flick by. His thoughts are muddled, each one coming to him like it’s passing through syrup, and the more time he spends feeling like absolute garbage the more anxious he gets. 

What if something is seriously wrong? What if he developed some new, obscure allergy and his body is destroying itself from the inside out—he’s definitely, probably seen stuff on the news about that happening. And just the other day wasn’t Saeyoung talking about brain-eating parasites that enter your body when you inhale water while swimming? Sure the last time he actually swam anywhere was at the public pool during the summer—but what if he’s had parasites lying dormant in his brain this whole time and it just took this long for them to do any damage? What if he’s dying?

Zen is fumbling for his phone before he even has time to process his clouded anxieties, tapping through his contacts in seconds and placing the only call that makes sense to his sickness-addled mind. 

“Yoosung,” Zen groans into the receiver, “I think I’m dying.” 

“Wh-huh? What kind of greeting is that?” Yoosung’s voice is obnoxiously loud, but Zen is too desperate for his help to even think about hanging up. 

He pushes past his headache and repeats a weary, “I think I’m dying.” 

Yoosung makes a noise of disbelief. “What are you talking about, you’re obviously not dying—and even if you were, what do you want me to do? They have a hotline number for that you know!” 

Zen goes to reply but a catch in his throat sends him into a fit of violent coughing so harsh he’s gasping for air. Once he’s able to catch his breath, he realizes that Yoosung has been repeating his name with increasing concern. 

“Zen? You weren’t serious were you? Zen, are you okay?” 

“I don’t know,” Zen manages. “Everything hurts.” 

He stands unsteadily from the bed so he can begin the trek to the kitchen, keeping one hand on the wall so he doesn’t fall flat on his face. 

Yoosung sounds a bit panicked now, his voice tight with anxiety even over the phone. “Should I— should I call someone? Oh man, you aren’t actually dying, right? Why did you call _me_?” 

Zen opens his fridge and grabs the first thing his eyes land on, a half opened energy shake from his workout the other day. He gulps it down, sputtering when he realizes his sinuses are so stuffed he can’t actually taste the drinks flavoring, only its chalky undertones. The viscous liquid does nothing to quench his thirst. 

He leans against the fridge door, the metal cool against his skin. “Don’t you go to school for medicine or something…?” 

“ _Veterinary_ medicine! And I only took it for two semesters!” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh,” Yoosung parrots, exasperated. He grumbles a bit more about Zen not knowing his major but another, weaker fit of coughs brings him back to previous levels of concern. “I’m not a doctor, but you sound terrible. Do you have any other symptoms?” 

Zen lists the myriad of aches and pains he’s suffering, and details when they all began. Yoosung listens in silence, not speaking even after Zen has finished summing everything up. “So? Should I start drafting my will?” 

“Zen,” Yoosung says, drawing out his name like a parent at their wits end. “I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell you this, but you’re freaking out over the common cold.” 

A cold? That...actually makes a lot of sense. While he doesn’t have past experience to go off of, once he thinks about it, every symptom he’s exhibiting is something he’s heard others complain about when they’ve gotten sick. Zen has worn his hearty immune system like a badge of pride for as long as he can remember. In fact, never having had a cold is a popular trivia fact he shares with fans— something he supposes he'll have to abandon after today. 

But really…

“Does having a cold really feel this bad?” he moans, slogging into his living room and collapsing onto the couch. The harsh light streaming in from his street level window scrapes at his senses like shards of glass, but he can’t summon enough energy to close the blinds. He turns to face the back of the couch instead. 

“For us normal people it’s usually just inconvenient,” Yoosung says dryly. “But for a superhuman freak of nature who’s never caught a cold I guess it would feel like dying.” 

“Your bedside manner is terrible,” Zen mutters. “Why did I call you again?” 

“Because you don’t know how to search your symptoms on the internet like ninety-nine percent of the population,” Yoosung replies, getting one last jab in before he turns serious again. “Seriously though, I have a group project I'm working on today, but I’ll cancel if you need me to bring you stuff. I can also call someone if you want.” 

“You're nice when you want to be, huh?” 

Yoosung humphs. “I’m always nice!” 

Now that Zen knows he’s not seconds away from his own demise he’s able to think clearer. If it’s just a cold, he doesn’t really need to inconvenience anyone else—so what if he’s never been sick before? If the average person can get along fine with a cold, then so can Zen as decidedly more than average. He’s dealt with…well, nothing exactly like this before, but he’ll manage. 

Zen declines the offer for help and assures Yoosung that he overreacted in the first place. “I have nothing going on today anyway, I’ll just sleep it off.” 

“Well...okay…” Yoosung says after more insistent reassurance. “But if you need anything you can text or call or whatever. I can’t do a lot on my side but I bet Seven’s got all sorts of remedies for this sort of thing!”

Just thinking of the kind of panacea Saeyoung would cook up for him has Zen’s stomach turning again. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass, thanks.” 

“No problem!” Yoosung says. “The others are never going to believe this—” 

Zen hangs up the phone. 

Quiet finally settles around him like a warm blanket, and he dismisses the idea of moving to his bed as soon as it enters his mind. The stretch of hallway from the living room to the bedroom might as well be the distance from his apartment to Mars. 

He rolls onto his back, throws an arm over his eyes to block out the light, and goes back to sleep. 

_________

It can’t be more than an hour later when a piercing sound startles Zen awake from a deep slumber. A sharp ringing lances through his head, which he’s disappointed to find is still as muddled and sore as earlier. To top it off, the couch armrest has left him with an uncomfortable crick in his neck. 

He sits upright, staring blankly at the coffee table until he’s mustered enough sense to go see who’s at the door—the person has switched to light knocking, a slightly more bearable sound, though Zen still intends to give whoever it is a piece of his—

Saeran stands there with one hand mid-knock, his eyes wide. 

The sight of him is so unexpected, for a moment Zen is sure he’s sick enough to be hallucinating. Saeran is bundled up in layers, but the thick scarf wound around his neck must not completely keep him warm as his cheeks and nose are tinged red from the cold. His hair is shinier than Zen remembers, his eyelashes as well almost glittering with what Zen quickly realizes is snow. He turns his head to check out his living room window and sure enough, small white flakes are falling outside. 

When he looks back Saeran is still there, very real and dusted in snowflakes. 

He tries to think of an appropriate greeting for someone showing up at your place in inclement weather, but Saeran drops his hand to his side and gives Zen a glare that would’ve shut him up had he been speaking. 

“You look awful.” 

Those three words shatter the frozen illusion of the moment, and Zen’s laugh ends with him coughing into his sleeve. “I definitely don’t hear that very often,” he says after a moment. 

Saeran seems to realize the implication of his words, looking a little guilty as he shuffles inside and slips out of his boots. The glitter-like snow quickly melts off his hair and Zen is sad to see it go. 

“How are you?” Saeran asks, folding his coat and scarf over his arms. 

“Awful,” Zen says, intending it to come out more as a joke than it does. His hoarse throat isn’t doing him any favors. “How are you here right now?” 

Saeran moves past him, placing his apparel on the small table Zen keeps by the entrance. The only other thing on his person is a grocery bag hanging from his shoulder. “Despite what you may have heard, I do know how to use public transportation.”

“Let me rephrase,” Zen tries, rubbing at his temple. “What brings you here?” 

“I bought some things I thought might help you feel better.” Saeran transfers his bag to his hands and opens it in offering. “Yoosung mentioned that you’d gotten sick.” 

Of course. Zen had been too busy stewing in misery to consider the consequences of Yoosung’s big mouth. He wonders what the chat must look like at this very moment. His phone lies across the room on the couch, menacing in its silence. 

Saeran seems to read his mind. “It’s alright,” he says earnestly. “We were able to calm Jaehee down.” 

That doesn’t exactly make him feel any more optimistic. He sighs, pushing his worries aside for when he’s well enough to deal with them. “How’d you end up being the one sent to check on me? Did you guys draw straws or something?”

“Oh, no. I chose to come over here myself.” 

Zen blinks. “You didn’t have to.” 

“Of course I did.” Saeran says, looking at him like he’s lost his mind. 

And that apparently settles that. Saeran asks if he can use Zen’s kitchen, and Zen gives permission with an open gesture of his hand, not trusting himself to say anything coherent. 

Saeran moves through his apartment like he’s been there a thousand times before, only taking a few quick glances around. He’s probably trying to be polite by not lingering on Zen’s mismatched furniture, most of which he’d bought second hand and never considered replacing. Zen doesn’t live like a messy bachelor, but beyond keeping the place clean he hasn’t put a lot of thought into his decor. 

Suddenly blindsided by an intense desire to have Saeran approve of his living space, Zen makes a halfhearted attempt to readjust the few items that pass as furnishing. 

“You have a nice apartment,” Saeran says, catching him in the middle of pushing a floor lamp a couple inches to the left. “It’s cozy.” 

He smiles at Zen and moves around the partition into the kitchenette. Zen abandons his project and joins him. 

Now that the surprise of Saeran’s arrival is beginning to wear off, Zen can feel himself once more becoming aware of all the ways his body is failing him. His headache has settled behind his eyes, and he struggles to find a comfortable standing position, eventually just supporting himself fully against the wall. 

Watching Saeran poke around the cabinets and frown at the contents of his fridge, the desire to be a good host overrides his fatigue. 

Zen pushes himself upright, intending to help out, but the motion sends his head spinning. He grasps at the counter and takes a deep breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, willing away a wave of nausea. 

“Zen?” Saeran’s voice is gentle at his side. He urges something into Zen’s hand—an unopened sports drink. “Have some, it should help you stay hydrated.” 

The brand is one he recognizes from the convenience store. It’s not something he’d usually drink, and the bright blue liquid doesn’t look particularly appetizing, but he still downs half the bottle.

“Thanks.” He sniffs, swiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve. 

“Have you taken your temperature yet?” 

“I don’t own a thermometer.” 

That earns him the most baffled look of the morning. Saeran is surely wondering how he’s managed to survive this long on his own. There’s no salvaging the remnants of his self image, especially when Saeran shuffles close, mumbling an apology and lifting a hand to brush Zen’s bangs back so he can feel his forehead. 

“You’re burning up,” he says with alarm. 

That explains why the world keeps going fuzzy at the edges. Zen closes his eyes, savoring the cold relief of Saeran’s palm. It’s a shame when he finally pulls away with a hint of real exasperation. 

It’s such a rare expression on him that Zen doesn’t dare utter a word of protest as he’s turned by the shoulders and ushered out of the kitchen. His apartment isn’t very big, and Saeran almost intuitively knows which direction to head. He leads Zen to his room and all but forces him back into bed. 

“Sleep,” Saeran instructs, switching off the overhead light. 

Zen doesn’t need any real convincing. The moment he lies down he’s overcome with fever driven exhaustion. His sleep is dreamless, and it feels like no time passes from the moment he closes his eyes to when he’s roused again by a touch to his shoulder. 

Saeran is settled on the edge of the bed, illuminated in lamplight, looking far less agitated than before. He brushes a hand to Zen’s cheek and Zen has to physically restrain himself from leaning into the touch. This kind of nurturing contact is something he’s sorely missed out on for a good decade of his life. 

“Your fever’s gone down,” Saeran says, relief evident in his voice. 

Zen pushes himself up on his elbows, glad to find the effort doesn’t make him dizzy like before. Yet his body still aches and his cough hasn’t gone away. 

He can imagine how he must look, sickly and bedridden by a cold of all things.

“I’m sorry you have to see me like this…” he mutters, trying to fix his bangs with his fingers. 

“You’re _sick_ , Zen. That’s not enough to ruin my impression of you.” Saeran huffs in amusement. “Though I would’ve thought you’d know to check yourself for a fever.” 

Zen could argue that before today, he had no reason to even consider buying a thermometer, but he’s just noticed that Saeran is holding a steaming bowl of food in his lap. He sits up fully, leaning back against his pillows. “What’s that?” 

“It’s rice porridge with ginseng,” Saeran explains, tilting the bowl to show him its contents. It looks and smells better than any porridge Zen has had, and a pang in his stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten all day. 

Saeran scoops some up, lifting it to Zen’s mouth as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Zen follows his lead without thinking, parting his lips and letting Saeran spoon feed him like they’re acting out a scene from a TV drama. Heat returns to his face and this time he can’t even blame the fever. He lets Saeran continue for a few more bites before his embarrassment overwhelms him, and he has to refuse the next spoonful. 

Saeran settles back with a frown. “Do you not like it?” 

Actually, even with his dulled sense of taste, it’s the best meal he’s had all week, well seasoned and heated to a perfect temperature. He shakes his head and carefully lifts the bowl out of Saeran’s hands, demonstrating that he can eat by himself. “I can at least manage this.” 

“Oh, that was impolite of me,” Saeran says, growing flustered. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

Zen waves off his explanation. “This tastes amazing—Are you sure you aren’t some sort of culinary angel?”

Saeran relaxes, smiling at the praise. “You sound like my brother.” 

“I must be sicker than I thought,” Zen quips, and digs into the rest of his porridge. 

He hadn’t bothered to tie his hair up after showering, and he struggles to eat without letting any strands slip into his food. The fourth time he has to pause to push it back over his shoulder, Saeran speaks up. 

“Would it be alright if I did your hair?” 

“You don’t have to,” Zen says, setting the bowl down on his nightstand. 

“You keep saying that.” Saeran looks away, his hands curling in his lap. “I’d like to.”

Zen can’t find any reason to refuse, though for a moment, a small alarm rings at the back of his consciousness as if he’s entering dangerous territory. He dismisses it outright—there’s nothing he has to worry about under Saeran’s care. 

While Saeran retrieves a brush from the bathroom Zen readjusts so there’s enough space for both of them to sit on the bed. 

“I’ve been wondering,” Zen begins, as Saeran kneels behind him. “Aren’t you worried I’ll get you sick?” 

Saeran hums, gathering up his hair and pulling it all to the back. “Saeyoung asked the same thing. I told him, with what they fed me at Mint Eye I’m probably immune to every illness at this point.” 

“...” 

“Yes, that was his reaction as well.” Saeran laughs and Zen can’t really bring himself to join in. “He was the only one against me coming over today. I think he has too many bad memories of looking after me when we were children.”

Saeran cards his fingers gently through the hair at Zen’s crown, the motion sending tingles of pleasure along his scalp. “Did you get sick a lot?” he asks after a minute of enjoying the sensation.

“Mhm.” Saeran begins brushing the ends so as not to tug on any tangles. “I was prone to catching colds when the seasons changed, and our mother was never fit to nurse me to health. Saeyoung ended up with that responsibility, among others.” 

Zen can’t imagine a child doing half the stuff needed to care for a sick person on their own. Saeyoung was really something else. 

“...Sounds like a complicated situation.”

“How about you?” Saeran asks. “Were you ever this sick growing up?”

Zen goes to shake his head, then remembers Saeran needs him to sit still. “I’ve never had a cold before.”

It was one of the rare things his parents had praised him for, as if he chose not to get sick. To them, the fewer burdens he placed on the family the better. 

“That explains some things,” Saeran murmurs, not unkindly. “Yoosung made it sound like you didn’t want any help. You could have said something earlier if you were having trouble, you know.”

Zen is used to handling things on his own—to being alone, through good and bad. Beyond that first panic driven call to Yoosung, the thought of reaching out to any one of his friends never crossed his mind. Had Saeran not taken the initiative and come over, Zen would most likely have stayed passed out on the couch until he felt better. 

The alternative, Saeran’s presence, is an outcome he greatly prefers. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Zen says eventually, feeling like he’s learned something important. 

There’s a lull in their conversation that Zen takes advantage of, resting his sore throat and letting his eyes slip shut as he focuses on Saeran’s touch. He’s set the brush down and moved on to braiding the length of Zen’s hair, deft fingers twisting the strands in soothing repetition. 

Zen doesn’t realize he’s started to nod off until Saeran is nudging him awake, the finished braid lying over his shoulder. 

“You should get some more rest,” Saeran says softly, sliding his legs off the side of the bed so Zen can get under the covers. 

“Thanks,” Zen says, “for the food. And everything else.” 

The words aren’t enough to describe how grateful he actually feels, but Saeran smiles as if Zen paid him a huge compliment. 

“I’ll be around for a while longer but is there anything else you need at the moment?”

Zen could point towards the cold scrambling his brain as the reason for his next request, but truthfully, he’s just choosing to be a little selfish when he asks Saeran to sit with him until he falls asleep. 


	6. heart to heart (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call for help and a serious conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the title doesn't make it clear enough, this chapter and the next are sequential!

It’s late, even by Zen’s standards. He’s brushing his teeth by the dim glow from the lamp beside his bed, when his cell starts buzzing at a low rumble on the bathroom counter. Upon checking the caller ID, he’s so surprised to see Saeran’s name he nearly doesn’t pick up. 

Saeran is always happy to listen to him ramble on about his day-to-day life, but it’s rare for him to initiate their conversations. Zen’s heart beats a happy double time at the thought, and he answers the call with a teasing question on his lips.

Saeran’s voice rushes through the speaker. “I ran away.” 

Zen pauses, gives his phone a blank look, and brings it back to his ear. “...What?”

“I ran away,” Saeran repeats, slower this time. Zen waits for him to go on, but there’s only the crackle of cellular interference.

“You ran away?” Zen echoes, his sleep deprived brain unable to draw any sort of conclusion from so few words. 

“Yes,” Saeran’s response is nearly smothered by droning sounds that fade in and out. Zen tries to pinpoint what they remind him of. 

“Do I hear...cars?” he asks. “Where are you?”

“Um,” —a few seconds where it sounds like Saeran is turning in circles— “I don’t know.”

The genuine uncertainty in his voice kicks Zen’s addled mind into gear, and he straightens, gripping his phone as his thoughts begin to race. 

“Wait— What? What do you mean you don’t know?” 

“I’m next to a road,” Saeran replies. “I don’t know which one.” 

Zen braces a hand against the door jamb and tries to work out what’s happening. “Why are you there?” 

“Because I ran away.” 

Unfortunately, Saeran seems determined to keep him in the dark. 

The sound of traffic is more distinct now as their back and forth wanes, and a growing sense of worry is beginning to eclipse Zen’s confusion. 

“So you’re telling me,” he begins, “That you’re lost, standing on the side of a busy street in the middle of the night, because you ran away from home?”

He comes to that ridiculous conclusion, sure that he’s misinterpreting the situation—that there’s no way Saeran would do something so impulsive. 

“There’s a sidewalk…” Saeran says weakly.

And that’s all the confirmation that Zen needs to go into panic mode. 

“Why are you– How did you–” Zen gasps, fumbling with his phone. “Are you in danger? Did something happen? No—nevermind. Can you see any road signs?” 

Saeran doesn’t react to Zen’s alarm, his voice remaining impassive. “I think if I walk more there’s one—“

“I need you to read me what it says, okay?” Zen interrupts, already halfway through pulling on a pair of jeans with the phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. 

The two minutes it takes Saeran to locate a sign are enough for Zen to finish getting dressed, and he listens carefully as Saeran reads off the name.

“Don’t move from that spot,” Zen says firmly, nabbing his motorcycle keys from their hook. “I’m coming to find you.” 

“Okay...” Saeran sighs across the line as if fatigue is catching up with him and hangs up without saying goodbye. 

_________

When Zen pulls his bike to the side of a random roadway several miles from his home, the tangle of anxiety and stress inside him has built up to a breaking point. He’d spent the whole ride in his head, composing the lecture to end all lectures, but the moment he spots Saeran his exasperation falls out from under him. 

The motions of kicking down the stand of his bike, unfastening his helmet and dropping it over the side mirror blur into one, and then he's running up to Saeran, pulling him into a tight hug as relief courses through his veins. 

Saeran’s arms come up tentatively like he’s not sure what to do with them. “Zen?” 

“Thank God,” Zen breathes, his heart thundering in his chest. “Do you know how scared I was?”

“Are you okay?” Saeran asks, patting him on the back, and Zen pulls away, gripping Saeran by the shoulders. 

“That’s my line! What were you thinking?” A terrible thought flashes through his mind. “It’s not a Mint Eye thing, is it? Or your dad?”

Saeran just shakes his head mutely. 

Zen opens his mouth intending to get to the bottom of things, but it’s then he notices that Saeran is shivering—small tremors running up and down his arms clad only in a thin sweater. 

Without thinking twice Zen strips off his jacket and pulls it over Saeran’s shoulders. “I’m taking you home.” 

Saeran grips the lapel of the jacket and lowers his gaze, shaking his head again. 

“Then I’ll take you back to my place. Is that better?” 

Saeran considers this while sounds of midnight traffic whiz by, throwing them intermittently into bright light. After a moment, he nods and brushes past Zen to stand by the motorcycle. 

Zen joins him, reaching around to unzip the bike’s tail bag and pull out his spare helmet—an old gift from Saeyoung. Though, perhaps calling it so is being too generous. The custom paint job is a soft, rose pink and the upper portion tapers into cat ears, of all things. Zen wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it himself but fastening it over Saeran’s head he can’t help but think it suits him a little too well.

He demonstrates the proper way to mount the bike and Saeran follows his lead, clumsily climbing onto the passenger seat.

Zen looks over his shoulder. “Hold onto my back.” 

Saeran does as he’s told, sliding his arms around Zen’s midsection lightly at first. As Zen starts the engine and the bike rumbles to life, Saeran jolts and presses close until he’s flush against Zen’s back, his forearms locking and hands gripping tightly into the fabric of Zen’s shirt.

Saeyoung is going to murder him, but Zen can’t bring himself to care. 

_________

“Ugh, I left the lights on,” Zen mutters to himself as he and Saeran step through the door to the apartment. It’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but the added annoyance compounds an already stressful night. 

“Sorry,” Saeran says, apparently painting himself as the cause of Zen’s frustration. He stands adrift in the entryway until Zen takes him by the shoulders and leads him to the couch, where he sinks into the cushions looking for all the world like he wishes they would swallow him up. 

Now that they’re inside, Zen can study Saeran in the light. He’s pale, though not more so than usual. His eyes are tired, like he may have been crying at one point, and he radiates unhappiness with his whole body. Zen feels a sudden, fierce desire to solve this problem. 

Taking a detour to the kitchen, he returns to the living room with a brown paper bag and glass of water in hand, plopping them down in front of Saeran and startling him out of a listless trance. 

“For you,” Zen says, leaving some space between them as he settles on the couch. 

Saeran moves the bag into his lap and peeks inside.

“What is this?” he asks, his face lighting up with interest as he pulls a fish-shaped pastry out by its tail, examining it every which way. 

“Bread with red-bean paste,” Zen explains. “They sell them right down the street from here.” 

Saeran stares down at the pastry in awe. “I can have one?”

“You can have the whole bag,” Zen says, spreading an arm out across the back of the couch. “Actually, scratch that, you’ll get a stomach ache. You can have a few.” 

“Thank you,” Saeran says with a genuine smile, the first one he’s given all night.

Zen is struck by a dizzying sense of dejavu. 

They spend some time quiet, Saeran munching on his bread, relaxing bit by bit under Zen’s watchful gaze. After concluding that one midnight snack won’t make or break his metabolism, Zen nabs a fish for himself.

Saeran is the one to break the silence, running his fingers up and down a crease of the paper bag. “Thanks for coming to pick me up.” 

Zen chews his last bite thoughtfully for a moment and then swallows. “Are you ready to talk now?” 

He doesn’t want to press too hard, but the events of the past hour have left him with little patience for ambiguity.

Saeran looks down at his lap and dusts off a few stray crumbs. “There’s nothing to talk about.” 

So _that’s_ how it’s going to be. 

“We’re both going to pretend I didn’t spend half an hour driving around the city because you stranded yourself in the middle of nowhere?” Zen snaps, and Saeran flinches as if slapped. 

“I’m sorry,” he says in a small voice, and Zen resents the pang of guilt that shoots through him. 

“Oh— nevermind. I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” Zen sighs, running a hand through his hair and tamping down his exasperation. Coaxing Saeran’s gaze back up with a leading tilt of his head, he adopts a gentler tone. “I’m just frustrated because I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not mad at you, alright?” 

Saeran clenches and unclenches his hands. “My brother and I had an argument.”

It’s not what Zen was expecting. Of course, siblings don’t always get along, but Saeran and Saeyoung coexist remarkably well for having been estranged half their lives. The closest they’ve ever been to a fight that Zen has seen was the one time Saeyoung announced over the messenger he was planning on adopting a cat. Apparently, he’d failed to consult Saeran beforehand, and the entire RFA got to witness several level headed paragraphs dissecting all the reasons that was a terrible idea. Even then, Saeran’s tone never went further than annoyance. 

Zen turns this idea over in his head and chooses his next words carefully. “An argument about what?” 

“The things we don’t talk about,” Saeran says, “Related to his time as an agent and mine at Mint Eye.” 

Zen sucks in air through his teeth. “Sore subject, huh?” 

“It shouldn’t be.” Saeran shrugs, swapping the bag in his lap with the glass of water. “But we always cycle back to the same topics in the end.”

“You’re being pretty objective,” Zen observes. 

Saeran taps his finger against the rim of the glass, watching ripples form. He tilts it up halfway as if to take a sip, but then lowers it back down. “I understand why he worries, and I understand why he feels guilty. I even understand why he tries to give me everything….”

He lists these points like he’s conjuring up an earlier conversation with Saeyoung, each one bringing him closer to igniting on buried and bitter emotions. 

Zen tries to give one last push. “You understand him, but…?”

“But I can’t accept any of it,” Saeran says, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “It’s like I'll always be this burden he has to carry.”

 _Ah,_ Zen thinks, _so that was it._

In some respects, he understands where Saeran is coming from. Saeyoung’s tendency to shoulder guilt is almost as bad as Jihyun’s, and having to be the object of his devotion can’t be easy. Still...

“Nobody sees you as a burden,” Zen says as earnestly as he can. “Seven especially. You’re the most important person in his life.” 

“I forgot what it was like to matter that much to someone,” Saeran says, swirling the water in his glass. “It feels like a bigger responsibility than I’m capable of. I’m afraid I’ll end up hurting him again.”

Zen frowns. “Again?” 

“I hurt him because I couldn’t recognize I was being manipulated and left him in the dark because I was too weak to stand on my own.” Saeran looks away sharply, furrowing his brows like the words are painful to speak. “Not to mention all the years I spent despising him. How can I ever make up for that?”

“Saeran,” Zen says, “I’m going to touch you, okay?” 

Saeran blinks, obviously thrown by his off-topic interjection. “Go ahead.” 

Zen doesn’t have a lot of experience comforting others beyond acting out lines in a show, but as he places a steady hand on Saeran’s shoulder, he finds he doesn’t have to search hard for the right thing to say. “None of what you went through was your fault. Frankly, I can’t believe you would put that sort of pressure on yourself when there’s nothing you have to make up for.”

“Nothing?” Saeran asks, incredulous. “Working for Mint Eye and spurning my brother counts as nothing?”

“You were a child who someone exploited,” Zen says firmly. 

Saeran shakes his head. “That’s just an excuse.” 

“I have an older brother too you know,” Zen offers, and once again Saeran looks thrown. “He’s a successful lawyer. I used to really look up to him.” 

“Used to?”

Zen sighs, unaccustomed to dredging up the details of his past. “I cut ties with my family several years ago.”

Saeran is starting to look a little more relaxed now that the topic has shifted away from him. He gives Zen a sympathetic frown. “That must have been difficult.”

“In some ways it was, but I don’t regret it,” Zen says, lapsing into reminiscence. “From the time I was able to understand words, my mother insisted on convincing me I was ugly.” He scoffs. “Me! Ugly! Can you believe it?”

Saeran lips quirk up a bit, but he refrains from laughing. “I don’t think anyone could convince you of that. 

“You joke, but to an impressionable child an adult’s word is law,” Zen continues. “If it weren’t for my brother, I’m sure I would’ve believed her.”

“That’s…really terrible.” 

Zen levels Saeran with a look. “Do you think I was in the wrong for going out on my own?” 

“Of course not,” Saeran says emphatically, and Zen nods. 

“Then would you say that kid Zen deserved what he went through? That he was weak? He should’ve stood up for himself, right?”

“No…” 

“Why’s that?”

“Because—” Saeran grips the hem of his sweater, refusing to meet Zen’s eyes. “Because you were just a child.”

Zen hums, squeezing Saeran’s shoulder before letting go. “No one bears that responsibility, especially not a child.”

_Nothing you went through was your fault._

Saeran takes a shuddered breath, and his shoulders drop like they’ve lost a huge burden. He slumps back against the couch cushions and takes a long drink of water.

Zen plucks the glass from his hands once he’s finished and goes to fetch him a refill.

When he steps out of the kitchen, he finds Saeran up and wandering, the jacket Zen lent him earlier hanging by his shoulders like a traveler’s cloak. He studies the acting books and scripts on Zen’s shelves, picking one up to flip through.

Saeran turns Zen’s way, his eyes questioning. 

“Why aren’t you in contact with your brother anymore?” he asks, glancing down at the script in his hands. “You said he was there for you.” 

Zen can’t help the way his expression drops. “Unfortunately, his support was conditional. He sided with my mother when I began to pursue acting.” 

Saeran presses his lips together in contemplation. “How old were you?”

“I was in middle school,” Zen says, and Saeran looks so unbearably sad for him in that moment that Zen almost regrets bringing it up. 

Saeran sets the script back on the shelf and returns to the couch, urging Zen down with a tug at his sleeve. They’re close enough now that Saeran’s knee knocks against his own as he sits. 

Saeran looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. 

“I’m lucky to be where I am today, even without my family,” Zen assures him. “And now I know how to spot unconditional love, like the kind between you and Seven.”

Saeran flushes a self-conscious red. “That’s so corny.” 

Zen grins. “Knowing someone cares about you that much is really something special.” 

“I suppose it is nice, in a way,” Saeran says shyly. “Though I wish he would trust me a little more.”

“With the stunt you pulled tonight it’s not like you’re giving him much reason to.” 

Saeran looks properly ashamed. “That was reckless of me, wasn’t it?” 

_“_ Reckless?” Zen purses his lips. “Yeah, let’s go with that. It’s a good thing you called.”

“I honestly thought it would go to voicemail,” Saeran confesses. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Zen laughs lightly as if Saeran’s words don’t send a warm flash of awareness up the back of his neck. “I’ve had producers beg me to do voice work before.”

Saeran nods. “When I’m feeling anxious, sometimes it helps to imagine what you might say to calm me down.” 

Saeran doesn’t appear embarrassed by this admission. If anything, he’s the calmest he’s been since he stepped foot in Zen’s apartment. Zen feels strangely worked up in contrast as he struggles to think of an appropriate response, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Well, uh, maybe I can record myself for you sometime— so you don’t have to imagine.”

“You would do that?” Saeran asks, like he’s offering up something invaluable.

“Sure! It’s not that different from filming a personal message for a fan.” Zen has done a couple of those before for members of his fanclub—simple, encouraging words thanking them for their support. The idea is a lot less intimidating when he frames it that way. “I have one condition though,” he says, holding up a hand and extending his pinkie. “Promise you'll call me first if you’re ever scared or unsure. I’ll help you feel safe, okay?”

Saeran stares for a moment, then tentatively links their little fingers.

“I promise.”

Zen bobs their hands together up and down once in affirmation. “Would you rather stay here tonight? You can take my bed.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep for a while,” Saeran admits. “Don’t let me keep you, I’ll just watch TV or something.” 

The thought of leaving Saeran alone to zone out to some random late night variety show makes Zen indescribably sad. He racks his brain for relaxing activities besides his go to of beer and cigarettes and quickly comes up with a plan. 

“Actually, I have someplace I’d like to take you.” 


	7. heart to heart (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overdue realization and matching confessions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this was the first thing I wrote before I'd even committed to a chaptered work.

Traveling by bike along a familiar path, Zen can feel himself beginning to wind down and release built up tension in his shoulders. Every now and then, Saeran shifts behind him, turning his head so he can take in their surroundings as they speed past dark, wooded areas. 

Zen parks next to a gap in the thicket of trees and helps Saeran off the bike. 

“I’m not sure I’m dressed appropriately for hiking,” Saeran says, plucking at the material of his sweater underneath his borrowed jacket. 

“It’s not far,” Zen assures him. “In fact, why don’t you close your eyes? It’ll make the surprise better.” 

Saeran obediently shuts his eyes and furrows his brow. “How am I supposed to— oh!” He jumps as Zen takes a hold of his hand. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Zen says softly. “Don’t worry about falling. You’re safe with me.” 

Saeran seems hesitant at first, but as Zen tugs him forward he trips into easy steps beside him.

Guiding someone in the dark by the light of his smartphone does complicate things, but it’s worth knowing that Saeran trusts him so implicitly. The winding dirt path is fairly well traveled, the walk no more treacherous than if they were on a paved road. 

His favorite spot is exactly as he remembers, made even more lovely by the addition of hardy wild flowers growing abundantly despite the cold weather. He’s thankful it’s such a clear night—dim, but not pitch-black thanks to the full moon and the far off lights of the city, twinkling like jewels in the distance. 

As carefully as he can, Zen crosses the clearing with Saeran in tow, stopping just short of the wooden barrier. He places Saeran’s hand on the railing, and gives him the okay to open his eyes. 

Zen can’t imagine anything more pleasing than watching the way Saeran’s expression transforms upon taking in the view. His eyes widen, his mouth parting in awe like he’s never seen anything like it. 

“This is where I go when I need to do some thinking,” Zen says, tearing his gaze away so he can look out across the horizon. “It’s really something, isn’t it?” 

“It’s beautiful,” Saeran breathes, hushed as if holding on to the spell of the moment. 

“You can see the stars too,” Zen scans the blue-black sky of constellations, his heart filled with the kind of appreciation only such a view can inspire. Having Saeran close by, seeing what he sees, makes the experience even more significant. 

Searan tilts his head back, his expression growing soft. “It’s like an ocean.” 

“Exactly! You get it.” Zen nudges him with his shoulder. “I knew you would.” 

After a long moment spent appreciating the landscape, Saeran manages to look towards Zen, a gentle smile playing at his lips. “Thank you for bringing me here. You always seem to know exactly what I need.”

“Mm, I think you’re giving me too much credit,” Zen says, crossing both his arms and leaning fully on the railing. “Most of the time I just do what feels right in the moment, yknow?” 

Rather than acting on impulse, it’s always been easier to follow his gut. His intuition rarely fails him, especially when it comes to Saeran. 

Saeran shakes his head. “I’m always going back and forth about what could go wrong or what I’m overlooking— I end up never taking chances on anything.” 

“What’s something you’d like to take a chance on?” 

Saeran pauses for a minute and then turns sheepish. “Don’t mention this to Saeyoung, but I’ve considered dying my hair back to red.” 

“That’s a great idea,” Zen exclaims. “Seven would be over the moon!”

“You think?” 

“His baby brother going out of his way to match again?” Zen laughs, envisioning the scene in his mind. “I’m pretty sure he’d burst into tears of happiness.” 

“ _Technically_ I’m not younger,” Saeran mumbles. “We’re twins…”

“Hmm, but if you dyed your hair,” Zen says, “I guess you’d have to do your brows too.” Without thinking, he reaches a hand up to gently swipe his thumb across Saeran’s left brow. By the time he’s realized what he’s doing, Saeran face is growing warm.

Zen pulls back and turns to the horizon as if he doesn’t notice. “I could help if you wanted. I’ve done Yoosung’s hair a couple times before.” 

_Begrudgingly_ **,** he doesn’t add. Yoosung always kicks up a fuss if the color isn’t toned exactly to his liking and complains incessantly about how the bleach makes his scalp itch. Zen imagines Saeran would be an easier client. 

“I don’t know,” Saeran sighs. “It may have suited me when I was a child, but I don’t think I’m cute enough to pull it off now.” 

Zen barely manages to keep his astonishment from showing on his face. 

Not cute? Out of all the things he thought Saeran worried about, aesthetic sensibilities had never crossed Zen’s mind. 

He catches Saeran tracing a delicate pattern into the wood, his last comment seemingly already forgotten. His brow is soft, emerald eyes unfocused with dark lashes dipped low, a startling contrast to his white bangs mixed with faded red strands. The light of the moon casts pale shadows across his face. 

Saeran hasn’t noticed the attention on him, so Zen looks, really _looks_ , for the first time—following the gentle slope of Saeran’s nose and across his cheeks. The glow of his complexion rivals even Zen’s own. 

All in all, Zen’s first conclusion is that Saeran is unnaturally pretty. He’s not the type you’d find smiling brightly from an ad display plastered to the window of a boutique, nor would he necessarily turn heads on the street. That’s more Zen’s territory. 

Instead, Saeran is like a uniquely crafted piece of art, a breeze on a winter’s day that alights your nerves, like biting into blue candy and savoring a flavor you can’t quite place. 

Perhaps unique isn’t the right word. Saeran is a twin afterall, an identical one at that. Every aspect Zen picks out among Saeran’s features should apply to his brother. But not only is that idea unappealing on the grounds of Zen admitting to any visual interest in Saeyoung, it’s simply not true. All he knows is that if he ever bothered to study the two side by side, the Choi twins would give off completely different vibes—Though, he’d certainly never afford Saeyoung the ego boost of hearing how lovely Zen finds his brother’s smile. 

Zen lets out a huff as that last thought flits through his mind and then Saeran’s wide, candy-blue eyes are turned on him. Zen’s second conclusion comes tumbling after his first. 

Saeran _is_ cute. 

That’s not a word he uses exclusively for women. Yoosung for one, in between bouts of immaturity, is like the endearing younger brother Zen never had. He’s aware of many people and things that can be called cute, but Saeran is cute in the most literal sense. Only someone with a discerning eye for aesthetics like Zen could spot it. It’s not that he _can_ be cute, it’s that he _is_ cute. From his penchant for flower language to the oversized fit of his sweaters, Saeran’s endearing energy is so innate that it’s almost imperceptible. It reminds Zen of an old actor’s adage about embodying a role body and soul.

Of course, Saeran isn’t acting. 

Zen feels the weight of this realization bear down on him as two bright spots of pink bloom high on Saeran’s cheeks, barely noticeable in the shadowed light.

“Was that…Did I say something strange?” Saeran asks, his voice carrying a thread of self-consciousness.

Zen’s impeccable manners kick into gear and he shakes his head vigorously. “You’re fine! You didn’t say anything strange, not at all.”

Saeran tilts his head to the side like a puzzled bird—and even that gesture is unbelievably cute.

“You’re not just saying that to be nice?” 

Zen doesn’t want to mislead him. Sometimes honesty is the best policy. 

“You said something...incorrect?” Saeran’s face falls and Zen rushes to get to the point. “Nothing weird! Just not, ah, accurate.”

“Accurate?” 

“You said you’re not cute,” Zen finishes lamely, and the sentence hangs between them. 

He feels an edge of awkwardness creeping up on him, but Saeran’s expression is open and neutral, as if he’s processing Zen’s words slower than he can react. The silence stretches to the point where his ears pick up background noise, crickets droning endlessly in time with the occasional hoot of an owl. It’s gotten late. They should head home soon—he’d rather avoid incurring Saeyoung’s wrath by keeping Saeran out any longer. The suggestion is on the tip of his tongue when Saeran finally speaks, apparently having come to a conclusion of his own. 

“You’re making fun of me.” Saeran’s blank stare shutters in an instant, and he turns his shoulder towards Zen, practically curling in on himself. It’s like watching a flower wilt in real time. 

Zen gapes, blindsided by this rapid shift in Saeran’s demeanor. He completely missed the mark on conveying himself properly and now Saeran keeps glancing towards the pathway, looking about ready to walk himself back home if only to avoid the current situation. 

“No, no, no, that’s not it, babe,” Zen says, a bit panicked, and that brings Saeran’s wandering attention swinging back to him in full force. 

Whoops. 

He’s not sure how that slipped out. The endearment is a force of habit at this point but he’s usually good at using it only when appropriate. Does this mean a part of him considers Saeran an appropriate person? He shelves that question for later as Saeran is now looking at him like he’s lost his mind. 

“Are you drunk?” Saeran asks, eyes flitting around Zen’s face like he can spot intoxication. 

“First of all, I drove us here,” Zen says, running a hand through his hair. “Second, I want to make this clear. Saeran, you’re super cute, and I don’t usually get that impression from guys.” 

“You think I’m-” 

“—Cute, yea,” Zen finishes for him, flashing what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Actually, It’s the first time I've looked at a guy and thought, _‘man, he’s out-of-this-world cute_.’ Do you have a skincare routine?”

Saeran’s fingers shoot up to trail down his cheek, fluttering over the swathe of scarring in disbelief. When he speaks his voice is strained. “This isn’t funny.”

 _“_ Am I laughing?” Zen points to himself, conjuring up the most stoic expression he can manage _. “_ I think I’m a pretty good judge of looks, and you know I’d never lie to you.” 

He has more to say, more compliments than he can fit in even a handful of phrases, but Saeran is frozen again. His lips are parted and his eyebrows are raised in what Zen would hesitantly call shock, a soft mirror of his awe from earlier. Zen mentally backtracks through the last minute, and nothing he remembers saying stands out as particularly startling, yet Saeran is gripping the railing hard enough to whiten his knuckles. 

Searan blinks, once, twice, three times fast—and a rapid transformation comes over him. A charming flush crawls up his neck, slowly painting his entire face until he’s practically glowing bright in the dark, warmth reaching the tips of his ears, standing out starkly against the white of his hair.

It’s adorable. 

Saeran inhales sharply, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and Zen realizes he must have said that last part aloud. 

“You— I’m—” Saeran struggles, looking anywhere but at Zen. “You’re serious.”

“Well, yeah,” Zen says, mesmerized. 

Saeran takes a few seconds to compose himself, but the color refuses to leave his face. “Thank you,” he says, finally meeting Zen’s gaze. “That means a lot, coming from you. You’re very handsome.” 

Zen swallows. _This isn’t…this shouldn’t be so…_

Something tugs at the edge of his understanding, a thought that’s becoming too urgent to ignore as Saeran's sweet voice calls his name. 

“Zen?”

_Oh._

“Saeran,” Zen says, and he must sound as strange as he feels, because Saeran straightens turning to face him completely. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Saeran asks, moving to feel the side of Zen’s cheek. The pads of his fingers are soft. “You’re quite warm. Should we sit down somewhere?”

He thinks he might understand.

“Saeran, you’re super, super cute.” 

“Thank you?” Saeran looks incredibly flustered. "You already said so.“

“Call me handsome again,” Zen breathes, giving voice to unexplainable desire as he pulls Saeran’s hand down to hold it carefully within his own. 

Saeran stares at their joined hands like he’s losing his grip on reality. “You’re— you’re handsome.” 

“Saeran,” Zen says once more, and when Saeran looks up again their faces are close. 

At first, Zen doesn’t know why he gives into the urge to kiss Saeran. Some subconscious part of him wants to test a theory, one that's been brewing in the back of his mind for so long, that it feels completely natural to close the distance between them. 

Zen presses their lips together in what is probably the most chaste kiss he’s ever initiated. He tries to make the move casual—prepared to pull away at the first sign of reluctance, but in an instant Saeran’s whole being seems to soften, his mouth parting on an exhale that ghosts across Zen’s skin. He kisses back as if driven by instinct alone, his fingers gripping Zen’s like they’re a lifeline. 

The kiss is slow and warm, and when Zen pulls away, it’s only to appreciate Saeran’s dazed expression. 

“Was that okay?” Zen asks softly. 

“I—I don’t know,” Saeran says, “I haven’t really done this…” His mouth opens on the unfinished phrase, the curve of his lower lip dangerously inviting. Zen can’t look away. 

“Never?” His own voice rumbling low like distant thunder in his ears and chest. Caught in a magnetic pull, their faces inch closer.

Saeran’s eyes slip half lidded, pupils blown black swallowing up an ocean of blue. “I’ve…never…” 

The space between them is heavy, and Zen absentmindedly rubs his thumb along the dip of Saeran’s knuckles.

Saeran shivers but his face is flushed, color splashed across his cheeks and nose. His breath comes shallow like the atmosphere is too thin, like he’s underwater, and Zen hazily thinks it’s only right they share air. 

The second kiss is more urgent as one of Zen’s hands comes up to cradle the back of Saeran’s head, holding him steady. His hair is as soft as it looks. To top it off, he tastes exactly like Zen’s favorite goldfish bread. Zen could do this all night.

Then, Saeran makes a helpless sound in the back of his throat, and Zen is hit with the reality of the situation. He immediately pulls back and watches Saeran blink up at him. 

Saeran touches his own lips with the tips of his fingers. “What was that?”

“I kissed you,” Zen replies. That’s all he can come up with.

“Why?” Saeran asks.

Zen tries to think up an answer to that question, but all of them seem lacking. _Because I felt like it? Because you’re cute? Because you called me? Because you’re wearing my jacket and you let me take you here and you trust me?_

“Because...I like you?” Zen tests the phrase out, and somehow, it feels like the right thing to say. It feels like he means it. That revelation, along with several others which follow, isn’t as surprising as it probably should be. Like everything else that has to do with Saeran, Zen finds himself easing into the idea naturally. 

“I like you too,” Saeran says, and Zen’s stomach somersaults. 

“You do?” 

Saeran nods. “Of course I do.”

_Wait._

“There’s people you like, and people you _like,_ ” Zen emphasizes, and receives a dubious look in response. “You like everyone else in the RFA, right? How would you say you feel about them?” 

“I’m grateful to them,” Saeran says. ”Everyone accepted me into the group like we’d known each other for ages, and now we’re— that is, I hope we’re all friends.” 

Zen rests an arm on the railing and casually leans into Saeran’s space. “How do you feel about me?” 

“You’re amazing,” Saeran states, like it’s a simple fact. “You’re incredibly diligent and resourceful. I admire your confidence and your drive— you light up any room you enter.” The way he’s looking at Zen is reminiscent of how he gazed up at the star filled sky. “You’re kind and patient, and no matter what, I know how loyal you are to the people you care about.”

Zen is so used to people complimenting his looks or critiquing his vanity that Saeran’s honest words fill his mind with dizzying euphoria. It takes everything he has to swallow back his emotions and ask, “How do you feel when we’re together?”

Saeran glances to the side and fiddles with the zipper of his jacket. “When I’m with you, I feel really happy. Though, sometimes it’s almost overwhelming.” 

“What about when I do this?” Zen asks, taking one of Saeran’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “How does that feel?”

Saeran’s blush comes back full force, and he seriously studies their linked hands like they’re a puzzle waiting to be solved. “It makes me nervous.”

Zen frowns. “Should I stop?” 

“How do I explain this?” Saeran mumbles. “It’s a good nervous.”

Something like hope thrums under Zen’s skin. He leans forward to examine Saeran’s face and Saeran immediately shuts his eyes, squeezing Zen’s hand as if in anticipation. And he can’t exactly ignore that, can he? 

Instead of going straight for Saeran’s lips, he places a kiss on the ridge of his brow, then on the warmth of his cheek, trailing down the place where the scarring is most prominent. 

Saeran gives a soft gasp and Zen takes the opportunity to kiss him once more on the mouth. “How is it?” he asks, gentle and unhurried. 

“My heart is racing,” Saeran murmurs. “I see, is this the kind of like you meant?” 

Zen nods. “That’s right.” 

“Then, you…about me…”

“I’m your biggest fan,” Zen says with a smile. “You said you admire my drive, but to me you’re the diligent one. Despite everything, you work hard every day to live the life you want. You’re really cool.” 

Saeran’s spirit is strong but he’s somehow managed to keep his gentle nature. His existence is a gift. “I like you, Saeran,” Zen continues. “In a romantic way.” 

It’s as clear a confession as he can make, his feelings spelled out in a decidedly inelegant fashion.

Thankfully, the following rush of anxiety vanishes the moment Saeran inches forward, steadying his hand against Zen’s chest so he can lean up and kiss the corner of his mouth. 

Zen pulls him in and very deliberately deepens the kiss, holding him by the chin so he can work his mouth pliant. Saeran’s lips, Saeran’s sighs, Saeran’s hands fisting in his shirt—Zen hadn’t realized he’d been missing out on so many wonderful things. 

Saeran eventually breaks it off. 

“I like you too,” he says, pressing his forehead against Zen’s shoulder. “...Romantically.” 

Zen laughs then, because it’s the only way he can express the mixture of relief and elation that has suddenly filled his chest fit to burst. He finally lets himself wrap his arms around Saeran’s shoulders, laying his cheek at the crown of Saeran’s head. “Two confessions under a starry sky— I swear I’ve watched this exact scene play out in a show before. I must be the luckiest man alive to experience it for real.” 

“You’re exaggerating,” Saeran mumbles, clearly a bit embarrassed. He still returns the hug, holding tight like he’s afraid to let go. “I’ve never had someone like me before. I’m not sure where to go from here.”

There’s a lot they have to discuss, but Zen is fine with leaving the complicated stuff for another night. For now, he’s content to revel in the warmth of Saeran’s presence, appreciating what he’s overlooked for much too long.

“That’s alright.” Zen says, closing his eyes. “We can find out together.”

_________

> **707:** ...
> 
> **707:** So
> 
> **707:** You swing that way huh?
> 
> **ZEN:** Do we have to do this now? 
> 
> **ZEN:** I literally just woke up.
> 
> **707:** Tsk tsk sleeping till noon? 
> 
> **707:** You know what they say~
> 
> **707:** the early bird gets the worm!
> 
> **707:** Hmm
> 
> **707:** I guess that worm is my brother?
> 
> **ZEN:** Don’t compare Saeran to a worm...
> 
> **707:** Oooo defending his honor 
> 
> **707:** how heroic!
> 
> **707:** You’re a real man’s man.
> 
> **ZEN:** I’m a ladies’ man! 
> 
> **ZEN:** LADIES’ MAN!!!
> 
> **707:** A ladies’ and man’s man?
> 
> **707:** Not judging 
> 
> **707:** That’d be pretty hypocritical of me lol
> 
> **ZEN:** …
> 
> **707:** A ladies’ and one specific man’s man?
> 
> **707:** Usually-ladies’-but-now-exclusively-Saeran’s man?
> 
> **ZEN:** No comment. 
> 
> **ZEN:** How did you find out so fast? 
> 
> **707:** Nanobots under your skin that transmit recording via wireless network.
> 
> **ZEN:** What?!
> 
> **707:** jk 
> 
> **707:** I saw this coming a mile away.
> 
> **707:** Saeran’s a terrible liar 
> 
> **707:** he spilled everything the second he got home.
> 
> **707:** Plus that goodbye hug was suspiciously long.
> 
> **ZEN:** God;;
> 
> **ZEN:** You were spying on us?
> 
> **707:** I had a right to.
> 
> **707:** My sweet little bro getting dropped off late at night by some delinquent on a motorbike? 
> 
> **707:** What will the neighbors think? 
> 
> **ZEN:** You don’t have neighbors.
> 
> **707:** Bzzt wrong
> 
> **707:** there’s an old couple down the street who bring us vegetables sometimes. 
> 
> **707:** Saeran makes the best veggie stir fry.
> 
> **707:** Don’t you think he’d be a good husband? 
> 
> **ZEN:** Is this your way of bullying me into asking for your blessing to date Saeran? 
> 
> **707:** Only if that’s your true intention. 
> 
> **707:** It doesn’t need to be said that if you ever did anything to hurt him 
> 
> **707:** i’d end your entire career. ^^
> 
> **ZEN:** You still said it though ;;;
> 
> **ZEN:** I’m not the kind of man who would mess around with someone’s feelings.
> 
> **ZEN:** Especially if it’s the guy I
> 
> **ZEN:** Umm
> 
> **ZEN:** Especially if it’s Saeran.
> 
> **707:** Really?
> 
> **707:** When you can’t even say the person you like is a guy?
> 
> **707:** I’m not convinced you know what you’re signing up for Mr. Ladies’ Man. 
> 
> **ZEN:** Look,
> 
> **ZEN:** I won’t act like I'm not out of my element and sure I have some stuff to think about now.
> 
> **ZEN:** But you have to understand Saeran comes before all that. 
> 
> **ZEN:** You know I don’t half-ass anything.
> 
> **ZEN:** And
> 
> **ZEN:** I really like him. 
> 
> **707:** Hmm
> 
> **707:** Hmmmmmm
> 
> **707:** You picked him up last night, right?
> 
> **ZEN:** Yeah.
> 
> **707:** HMMM
> 
> **ZEN:** ...What?
> 
> **707:** Alright here you go.
> 
> **707:** *~*~*~*~*~*
> 
> **ZEN:** What’s that?
> 
> **707:** It’s my blessing!
> 
> **707:** *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
> 
> **707:** There it is again
> 
> **707:** Wow~ Ur so lucky~
> 
> **ZEN:** -_-
> 
> **707:** Be grateful.
> 
> **707:** I wouldn’t let just anyone date Saeran.
> 
> **ZEN:** Lies.
> 
> **ZEN:** You wouldn’t actually interfere with his happiness.
> 
> **707:** …
> 
> **707:** ur lucky ur hot
> 
> **ZEN:** Dude,,, don’t say i’m hot,,,
> 
> **707:** Oops sorry, guess that’s Saeran’s territory now.
> 
> **ZEN:** If he called me hot
> 
> **ZEN:** I wouldn’t mind it at all ^^
> 
> **707:** gross
> 
> **707:** okay mandatory interrogation over.
> 
> **707:** have fun dating my brother.
> 
> **ZEN:** Thanks Seven. 
> 
> **707:** >.o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading!


End file.
